


Never Look Back (Because I'm Here)

by mondeblue



Series: A Silent Voice au [1]
Category: GOT7
Genre: Bullying, Childhood Trauma, M/M, Minor Psychological Diseases, Verbal Abuse, minor BTS characters, mostly just fluff despite the tags promise, with like a tiny dollop of angst on top
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-06-03 09:59:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6606571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondeblue/pseuds/mondeblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Jackson bullied Mark so badly he had to move to a different town, regret consumes him as he realizes the gravity of what he’s done. But when he has a chance to make up for his mistakes, will he be brave enough to fix them? Based off of the manga series A Silent Voice; some inspiration from Your Lie in April.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Never Look Back

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Echo Blue and Claire for beta-ing my fics! This is my first chaptered fic in a while, so they have to put up with my long-ass emails and shitty plots and constant (MINOR) panic attacks (mostly just keyboard smashing while crying loudly)  
> Anyways, um, enjoy????

_ Look at you. _

Jackson trudges through the snow-clogged streets, moisture seeping through his scuffed shoes. It’s almost spring, and green curls in patches across the ground; when he inhales, he can almost smell blossoms on the bare trees lining the sidewalk. A black cat, scrawny and scruffy and every bit as miserable-looking as Jackson is, melts from the shadows and rubs up against Jackson’s leg. He smiles, sighing softly, and it peers up at him with big green eyes, luminous and compassionate.

Sometimes, Jackson thinks, it’s not so bad being like this, cat padding next to him, the ghost of a breeze rustling past his ears. The him of three years ago had loved attention, practically lived off of it, but he’s grown to appreciate the silence of isolation, how wide the sky looks when he’s the only one looking up at it.

_ Are you too afraid to talk? Are you not man enough to stand up for yourself? _

Soon enough, Jackson’s footsteps fall in erratic intervals as he stops here and there to practice his fencing moves. Practice had been more challenging than usual, and if there was anything tying the old Jackson to the new one, it was the hatred of inferiority. 

And then it happens.

Somewhere between the flicks of his wrist and the leaps backwards and forwards with practiced skill, something shifts - his center of gravity’s off, he moved too late - and Jackson tumbles forward, cheek slamming against the sidewalk mercilessly. The contact sends pain ricocheting up his skull and stars swirling behind his closed eyelids, and for a moment he just lies there, waiting the pain out, listening to the sound of the cat’s mewing next to him.

_ Maybe you’re actually a girl. No wonder you’re so pretty. _

Jackson smells it before he sees it.

The scent - like trodden earth, like childhood memories - fills his nose. It’s not a foul experience, which is surprising considering it comes from a pair of shoes just as scuffed as Jackson’s, filling his vision.

And Jackson’s world stops.

He  _ recognizes  _ those shoes. Those were the same shoes that went tumbling after their wearer when Jackson trips him, day after day, scrape after bloody scrape. Those were the same shoes he strung atop an electric pole, laughing and catcalling as their wearer clambered up the pole to reach them, almost falling to his death twice. Those were the same shoes he left in their wearer’s desk after hiding them for weeks, soaking wet and stinking of mischief. Those were the same shoes that crossed the garden in front of the school for the last time, as Jackson finally,  _ finally  _ pushed too far.

And just like that day, regret floods Jackson’s system.

_ Maybe that’s why you’re always alone, huh? Because you never talk, so nobody wants you. I definitely wouldn’t. _

“Are you okay?” The tenor of his voice is still the same, warm and deep. Jackson squeezes his eyes shut because  _ god damnit,  _ after what he did the last thing he deserves is sympathy from the person he hurt so badly. He deserves to be kicked, to be insulted, to be dragged by the collar for several blocks before being dumped in a garbage can and left there overnight. 

He deserves to die.

“Hello?” The toe of his shoe prods Jackson’s side, gentle as if he’s afraid he’ll hurt him. Jackson kind of wants him to. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”

Jackson wants to lie there until he goes away, but suddenly he remembers the promise choked with angry tears he wrote down on a yellowed scrap of paper and tossed out the window, watching as it fluttered away. 

_ Fix it _ , he’d written. And Jackson Wang isn’t one to break his vows, no matter how dark or hurtful or terrifying they might be.

So, trepidation like lead bolts hanging off his body, Jackson pushes himself clumsily to his feet, wavering a bit before regaining his balance. That’s as far as his courage goes, though, so he tucks his chin against his chest and stares at his shoes, ignoring the way the scrapes on his cheek and knee throb and the beginnings of a bruise blossoming just underneath his eye. “I’m fine,” he mumbles, fisting his hands at his sides and refusing to look up. “Just please leave me alone.”

A sigh sounds just above Jackson’s head, and the toes of familiar scuffed shoes shuffle in something much softer-edged than impatience. Exasperation, maybe? Except Jackson has no right to receive anything less than pure, unadulterated hatred.

“You don’t have to hide from me, Jackson.”

Upon hearing his name, Jackson’s head snaps up so fast he nearly gets whiplash. His-

_ Damn it, Jackson. _

_ At least be man enough to say his  _ name.

Mark.

Mark is standing in front of him, so much older yet still so much the same. There is still the sad look in his eyes, like he always wants to speak but never says anything - the same look that drove Jackson to leave bruises all over his pale skin, scars all over his smile. His hair is a pale blonde, like fine-spun white gold, and his cheeks are a bit hollowed out - that’s what three years does, Jackson guesses. He suddenly wonders how different he looks to Mark, if it’s obvious that he’s changed as much as he feels like he has.

Mark smiles, then, and Jackson snaps.

“Punch me,” he says deftly, squaring his shoulders and clenching his hands into fists at his sides. He grinds his teeth together and prays that Mark doesn’t hit him in the cheek that’s already hurt, even though he knows he deserves it.

Just as much as he knows Mark will hesitate. Because Mark is too kind.

And, sure enough, Mark’s gentle stare wavers, a slight shift in his aura. “Don’t do this to yourself,” he says softly, driving the anger and guilt and constant echoing chants of  _ you deserve this you deserve this you deserve this  _ further into Jackson’s mind.

“Why shouldn’t I?” He says, registering the way the look in Mark’s eyes shifts to one of discomfort when his voice cracks and pitches at the very end of the sentence. “I deserve to  _ die _ , damn it!” He lifts a hand to run it through his hair, and just barely catches the way Mark very, very subtly flinches.

Suddenly, abruptly, tears are curving across the slope of Jackson’s cheekbones, stinging where salt meets raw skin. Mark reaches out to him, then draws back and gives Jackson a look, as if he’s not quite sure whether he can touch him or not. Jackson’s too busy blubbering to give him the go-ahead, though, so for several minutes they stand in uncomfortable stillness, Jackson sobbing his eyes out, Mark staring at him with gentle concern.

“I-I’m sorry,” Jackson finally manages to hiccup, drawing the back of his hand across his tear-stained cheeks and hissing when it makes contact with damaged skin. When his vision clears, Mark is looking at him with some degree of concern, two small lines creased into the skin between his eyebrows.

“You’re hurt,” he says quietly, the same voice he used three years ago in that dusty classroom, Jackson perched rudely on his desk after having shoved all his neatly arranged books and stationery onto the ground. “Why did you say you were fine?”

“You’re one to talk,” Jackson says, all the anger that had dissipated before returning in full force. “Even when I did that shit to you, you kept smiling. You never got angry. Why is that?”

Mark says something, voice suddenly very small, but Jackson can’t make out what he’s saying so he just keeps going.

“Why didn’t you punch me?” He demands, nails digging into the flesh of his palm. “Why did you just take it like you expected it?  _ Why didn’t you, for fuck’s sake? _ ”

“Stop it!” Mark says, suddenly, and Jackson almost keeps going before he realizes that  _ that look  _ is back, the pleading waver in his eyes, the way his voice dips at the end of the sentence. It’s familiar,  _ too  _ familiar, a stark reminder of what Jackson has done. Jackson shuts up immediately, and they just stand there for several minutes, the uncomfortable stillness from before returning. Occasionally, Jackson reaches out to put his hand on Mark’s arm, maybe grasp the fabric of the shirt at Mark’s side, just below his ribcage, then withdraws at the last second because hell, he doesn’t deserve to so much as lay a finger on Mark.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, Mark apologizes softly. “I’m sorry.”

“ _ Why _ ?” Jackson demands, unable to keep the exasperation from seeping into his voice. “Why are you apologizing when this is all my fault?” Mark flinches again, small but strikingly obvious to Jackson, and he suddenly feels weak, fifty pounds of guilt dropped onto his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, carding a hand through his hair. Mark won’t look him in the eye. “I should-”

“-get yourself cleaned up,” Mark finishes suddenly, interrupting whatever Jackson had to say. “You’re right. Come on, I’ll take you home.”

“No,” Jackson says abruptly, and misses the way Mark’s expression falls, hurt. “I don’t deserve your help. And besides, your mom… she probably hates me.” He can still remember, crystal clear, the way Mark’s mother looked at him when she stood in front of her car, beckoning for Mark to hurry up, like he was the creation of the devil, vermin that didn’t deserve to exist on the same dimension as her son. That was the first, and one of the only, times Jackson had ever felt bad about what he was doing, up until the moment Mark left.

“She’s not home,” Mark says, voice small, and Jackson senses it runs far deeper than that. But before he can ask, Mark is tugging on his sleeve, pulling him in the direction of his house. He tries to struggle, but Mark’s grip is surprisingly strong for someone with so soft a touch, so eventually he goes limp and lets himself be dragged. Besides, any show of force might hurt Mark, and Jackson has done that way too much.

They stop in front of a small bakery pleasantly decorated in pastels, a small sign with CLOSED printed in big black block letters standing out sharply against the color theme like a raven in a field of doves. Ignoring the sign, Mark reaches into his pocket and pulls out a keychain, a single, plain silver key dangling from a tiny Winnie-the-Pooh figurine. He unlocks the door and swings it open, still holding Jackson’s hand, and out of the corner of his eye Jackson sees a group of old ladies pointing at them and whispering amongst themselves. His face darkens as Mark pulls him into the darkened bakery, oblivious to the women’s stares.

“My room’s up here,” he says, pointing across the bakery to the narrow set of stairs tucked neatly behind the counter. It’s cramped, only fitting one person at a time, yet despite that their fingers remain intertwined the entire way, Jackson’s face reddening a shade darker with each step they take. Mark’s behavior confuses him, to say the least - Jackson expects him to hold a grudge, not hold his hand.

_ Maybe that’s all part of his revenge,  _ is the chilling thought that follows soon after.  _ Maybe he’s been planning this. _

Mark’s room is small, the popcorn ceiling slanting with the roof of the building, well-lit with the large window that encompasses most of the wall opposite the staircase. On the side where the ceiling’s lower is a bookshelf crammed with books, a desk covered in papers and a small, worn chair. Where the ceiling is higher sits a dresser and Mark’s bed, too small to fit more than one person, plain gray sheets unmade. Mark pushes the sheets aside and motions for Jackson to sit before disappearing through a small, closed door, the only other exit besides the staircase, leaving Jackson alone in awkward silence.

Not wanting to intrude on Mark’s privacy by poking around, Jackson sits on the bed obediently and allows his eyes to roam the bookshelf across from him. There are children’s classics -  _ The Chronicles of Narnia, The Lord of the Rings  _ and  _ The Little Prince  _ \- arranged side-by-side with books like  _ Lolita, The Book of Negroes  _ and  _ A Thousand Years of Solitude. _ There are random things shoved on the bookcase, too - an iPod, headphones, and a small, locked wooden box.

But before Jackson can even begin to wonder what’s so important that it had to be stored like that, Mark returns with some wet wipes, a square bandage and a plateful of cookies. He sets these all down on the bedside table and Jackson’s face darkens from the embarrassment of receiving this wholly undeserved treatment.

“This might sting a little,” Mark says, picking up a wet wipe and dabbing it against the wound on Jackson’s cheek before he can so much as protest. Sure enough, the chemicals burn against the scraped flesh, but Jackson barely notices it. This close, Jackson can verify that Mark’s face is actually completely unblemished, smooth skin stretched over perfect features. For a fleeting moment, Jackson wonders if he’ll ever meet someone as gorgeous as Mark is.

Then Mark leans away, and Jackson snaps back to reality so fast he doesn’t have time to berate himself for thinking the way he was.

“Done,” Mark says, smoothing a corner of the bandage down. “Do you want some cookies?”

“Um,” Jackson says intelligently. Truth be told, the cookies  _ do  _ look incredibly appeasing. Jackson reaches for one, but catches sight of the time on the clock mounted in his peripheral vision, and realizes it’s late. Far too late for Jackson to excuse his tardiness on some mundane distraction. 

The way Mark is looking at him, expressions morphing like a kaleidoscope in his eyes, makes him want to run; so that’s exactly what he does, rushing out of the room while tossing a hurried explanation over his shoulder, only noticing as he bursts through the door the alien beat pounding in his hollow heart.

\--

At school, Jackson ponders.

He’s not the type to believe in shitty things like fate and destiny and whatnot, but his chance meeting with Mark seemed a little more than pure coincidence. Why, on that day, had he chosen to take a different route from the dojo to his house, wanting to enjoy the long-awaited spring unfurling through the air for as long as possible? Why had Mark, despite all the negative memories stacked up like building blocks over Jackson’s neighborhood, decided to come back? Why had their paths crossed? Sure, Jackson had sworn to fix what he’d broken, but so  _ soon _ ? 

Is he even ready?

“-Jackson Wang I swear to god I am  _ seconds  _ away from setting your hair on fire.”

Jackson groans, his train of thought collapsing with the nasal drone of a familiar voice.  _ “ _ Go suck a dick,” he counters reflexively, reluctantly sliding down the bench to make room for another. Sure enough, a second later the green plastic of a cafeteria tray lands on the table with a  _ plunk,  _ accompanied by a regrettably familiar shock of pale blue hair as Bambam, the first-year foreign exchange student, plops down beside him.

“Really? That’s all you can come up with?” From the corner of his eye, Jackson is vaguely aware of the concerned look Bambam is giving him, mouth open wide to accommodate at least half of his sandwich. “Damn, Wang. What’s gotten into you?”

“Your mom,” Jackson says, before groaning and dropping his head onto the table. “Shit, you’re right. My game  _ is  _ off today.”

“Told you so.” Bambam chews thoughtfully on his sandwich, swallowing before speaking again. “So what’s up?”

Jackson hesitates for a small fraction of a second. Sure, Bambam’s surprising ability to keep a secret never fails, but despite this, he’s not sure he wants to tell him what happened yesterday. It’s ridiculous, but Jackson feels almost  _ possessive _ \- like Mark is a secret to keep close to the heart, for him and only him. Which is stupid, of course, especially considering all his friends know about what he’s done; communication is key to an effective friendship, after all.

So, after a moment of deep, intense pondering (which only lasts about a second, but still), Jackson gathers the courage and mumbles, forehead against the table, “I talked to Mark yesterday.”

Bambam chokes on his sandwich, something that, in other circumstances, would brighten Jackson’s day immediately. (Just because his friendships are effective doesn’t mean they aren’t sadistic.) But now, Jackson is far too exhausted to try and muster a reaction.

“ _ Mark  _ Mark?” Bambam demands. “Like, the guy you bullied to hell back in middle school?”

Jackson winces at the crude way he’s worded it, although it’s not exactly inaccurate. “No, dipshit, the gay stripper I met last week,” he says sarcastically. “Of course it’s  _ Mark  _ Mark. Who else would it be?”

Bambam mutters something like, ‘ _ damn, almost won that bet, _ ’ before clearing his throat. When he speaks again, the curiosity is obvious in his voice. “So what happened?”

“What are you excluding me from  _ now _ ?” says a voice directly above Jackson’s head as Yugyeom sits down across the table, brown paper bag dwarfed by his giant hands and even larger frame. Bambam, to Jackson’s amusement, looks a little more unnerved than he had a second ago.

Jackson’s amusement lasts about 2 seconds before Bambam blurts out, “Jackson saw Mark yesterday.”

He needs new friends.

“You  _ what _ ?” Yugyeom demands, lurching forward unexpectedly as if to grab Jackson by the shoulders before restraining himself at the last second. Beside Jackson, Bambam stands up as swiftly as Yugyeom had lunged forward, an alarmed, wary look in his eyes. 

And then Jackson realizes that it’s to protect him. Bambam, who has had a crush on Yugyeom for a year and would probably donate his male-stripper-pants to charity for him, would protect Jackson so reflexively he would go against the crush to end all crushes.

No, Jackson thinks as everyone sits back down and Yugyeom’s expression goes from one of mild concern to confusion to exasperated disappointment as he recounts his reunion with Mark, scratch what he said before.

He wouldn’t trade his friends for anything in the world.

\--

Naturally, it’s when Jackson’s alone that Mark finds him.

He thinks, as he pulls his hood lower over his eyes and tries to ignore the rapid palpitation of his heart, that it’s better like this. He hadn’t noticed it before, but he’s  _ different  _ around Mark. His normal crass, obnoxious, over-confident self is subdued, peeling away to reveal a Jackson in pastel colors, quieter, more thoughtful.

And it scares Jackson, to be honest. It scares him that Mark could bring out such a drastically different person in him (not  _ bad _ , necessarily, but it’s like a candle flame when all you’ve known is a blazing bonfire) within the span of just one single meeting. Maybe it’s the guilt, maybe Mark’s quiet aura puts a damper on Jackson’s rambunctious one, but it’s terrifying no matter the reason.

“Jackson!”

“Shit,” Jackson mutters under his breath as Mark runs up to him. The sunlight is warm, and while on others it's flattering, on Mark it makes him look absolutely breathtaking. He’s still in his school uniform, a white dress shirt haphazardly tucked into dark jeans, blue blazer unbuttoned, ice-blond hair messy. Just looking at him makes the alien feeling return, and Jackson can feel it thrumming in his veins as he gives a weak wave.

“Sorry for leaving so soon yesterday,” Jackson says, waiting for Mark to catch his breath. “See, it’s only my dad and me at home, so I need to help out as much as possible or the old man’ll go insane-”

“ _ Jia-er _ ,” Mark interrupts. His voice is quiet, but Jackson shuts up immediately at the sound of his Chinese name. No one uses that name - his father didn’t like hearing it, since it reminded him too much of Jackson’s mom. He’s not even sure how Mark knows it. “I understand why you had to leave. Why are you explaining?”

Jackson’s face flares up with heat, and he looks down at the ground knowing just how red his face is turning. Mark’s right - he’d said the exact same thing yesterday, before he left. “I figured I owed you an explanation,” he mumbles at his shoes, not quite talking about the day before, and Mark catches on.

“ _ Nunquam retro respicere, _ ” Mark says quietly, just a smudge over his breath. “Don’t be so hung up on the past, Jackson.”

“Don’t you want an apology, though?” Jackson demands, something like guilty frustration seeping into his veins like ink poisoning. “Why  _ aren’t  _ you hung up on the past?”

Mark doesn’t answer, and they fall into a heavy, oppressive silence, their footfalls the only indication that they aren’t frozen in time. At some point Jackson gives up on waiting for Mark to speak, so he shoves his earbuds in his ears and presses shuffle on his iPod. As the piano intro of Jay Chou’s ‘Silence’ starts, Jackson almost laughs at the irony. Is this what his language teacher calls pathetic fallacy? 

After a few minutes, Jackson’s almost at his block, relief tugging at the corners of his mouth. For some reason, he isn’t disappointed, doesn’t worry if this time is the last time he ever sees Mark. Because for some reason, as natural as breathing, like he’s known it his entire life, he knows Mark will find him again. He knows this isn’t the end.

Maybe he’s just a coward, but as he watches his footsteps gradually sync with Mark’s, he thinks he doesn’t need to rush this. There’ll be time.

A small, brownish-gray object on the sidewalk catches his eye, and he turns to find a snail inching along the pavement, a dark trail behind it, almost certainly doomed to be trampled underfoot. There’s a certain anguish, a huge, yawning hopelessness, about the snail’s meaningless predicament that without thinking Jackson bends down to pick up the snail, maybe put it in the grass where it isn’t in as much danger as it would be on the sidewalk.

But the moment he squats, however, the movement presses against the volume button on the iPod tucked in the front pocket of his jeans, ricocheting Jay Chou’s voice to max volume. Jackson yelps, yanking his earbuds out of his ears, careful not to step on the snail as he stumbles backwards, tumbling into a warm, solid body behind him.

An awkward moment to end all awkward moments ensues as they seem to remain frozen in that position, Jackson’s back against Mark’s chest, Mark’s arms gripping Jackson’s sides out of reflex. Mark is considerably taller than Jackson now, he notices - then again,  _ everyone’s  _ considerably taller than Jackson now, a fact Jackson swears isn’t permanent because hey, he’s still got four years to get to six feet. Not a big deal.

Finally, though, when Jackson’s head feels like it’s going to explode with all the blood rushing to his face, Mark pushes him off gently and without a trace of hostility. Jackson turns, voice stuck in his throat, to find him standing there without saying a word. He’s smiling, though, and it’s a breath in the suffocating silence, so Jackson manages to calm down and shove the moment into the depths of his memory.

“Jay Chou’s Silence?” It’s a statement despite the question mark haphazardly tacked onto the end, but Mark’s smile betrays just a little endearment. It takes Jackson a little while, but he realizes that with the volume turned so loud, he can hear the music from his earbuds. “Your music taste’s improved.”

Jackson winces, thinking of all the ‘hipster’ rap music about giant houses and ever bigger butts he used to listen to back in middle school. “Please don’t bring that back,” he groans, slapping himself in the forehead. “I’m sure no one wants to be reminded of their music preferences in middle school.”

To Jackson’s surprise, Mark laughs, the sound high-pitched and squeaky like he can’t quite catch his breath. It’s such a contradiction to the deep tenor of his talking voice that Jackson’s taken aback, and almost misses the beginning of Mark’s sentence. “Oh believe me, I’ve got it worse. I was a snobby ‘60s kid back then. I’m pretty sure at some point everyone just wanted me to shut up.”

Jackson grins in response before he remembers the snail, the reason this entire conversation had begun anyway. Turning around and squatting down, he gingerly picks up the snail by his fingertips. As it squirms, he wants to comfort it somehow, understanding how terrified it must be, suddenly caught up in a wave much bigger than itself. “I won’t hurt you,” he says quietly, knowing it can’t understand him.

Setting it down on the grass a safe distance away from the edge of the sidewalk, Jackson wipes his hands on his pants and turns to find Mark staring at him, an unreadable expression in his eyes. He raises his eyebrow in a silent question and Mark turns so red so fast it’s actually quite alarming, spinning on his heel and resuming the walk to Jackson’s house (even though Jackson’s pretty sure he doesn’t know where his house is). Amused, Jackson follows him, shoving his hands into his pockets and letting the music blast from his earbuds, open for Mark to hear from a few feet ahead.

It’s only when they reach Jackson’s house and are standing at the foot of his driveway that Jackson thinks to ask, “What did you say before? Retro-something?”

Mark smiles that same smile from before, and while in normal circumstances Jackson would find it patronizing and offensive, he finds that now, like this, he doesn’t quite mind.

“ _ Nunquam retro respicere, _ ” he says, the look in his eyes sending Jackson’s heart racing. “Never Look Back.”


	2. Needed To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not like their walk home together is a private, special thing. Besides, Jackson’s allowed to have a life outside of the one caught up in the past. It’s not like it’s illegal for him to have other friends and do the things friends do. Mark’s anger is completely uncalled for.  
>  So why does the guilt settled atop Jackson’s shoulders feel like it’s all his fault?

Gradually, like a creek carelessly meandering into a large stream, walking home with Mark every day has worked itself into Jackson’s routine. For the first few weeks, it’s pleasantly quiet, just a tinge of awkwardness hanging in the air between them. Jackson would have his earbuds shoved in, whistling off-key, and Mark would be reading a worn paperback novel. Even though their arrangement put them in near-death situations more than once, especially with the busy rush -hour streets roaring just off the sidewalk, Jackson doesn’t quite mind. 

In a way, like how Mark smiles at him when he sees him or how he somehow knows every single song on Jackson’s playlist, he’s repented a little for what he’d done in the past.

Until one day, Jackson’s worlds clash.

It was bound to happen. Jackson lives in the opposite direction of the rest of his friends, so he usually walks home alone; but when he receives his math test from the week before, vandalised by a disappointing  _ B-  _ scrawled in ugly red pen at the top right corner, he doesn’t think twice about asking Namjoon to come over after school to help him. Despite his nerdy, black-rimmed glasses and impossibly high marks, Namjoon is actually pretty cool; maybe it’s the uncharacteristic pink hair or the surprising amount of depth in the lyrics he scrawls in the margins of Jackson’s notebook during class, but over the years he’s grown to become one of Jackson’s closest friends. 

They’re traipsing along the courtyard, Namjoon babbling incessantly about the new fatal flaw in society using ridiculously long and complicated words Jackson can’t even begin to understand, when Jackson realizes the gravity of his mistake.

It’s there in the way the familiar light in Mark’s eyes dims, the look on his face as he looks at Namjoon like he’s invading his territory; it’s there in the way Mark’s eyes flicker over to meet Jackson’s, and he stares at him with a look of utter betrayal. Jackson opens his mouth to apologize, but the betrayal suddenly morphs into a hideous, gaping apathy, and Mark disappears around the corner without even a glance his way.

On the walk home, Jackson can’t help but notice how much further Namjoon stands from him compared to Mark, how their footsteps don’t quite match up.

\--

The next day, Jackson sits restless at his desk, keeping a watchful eye on the clock. Even though the look in Mark’s eyes yesterday when he saw Jackson had brought someone along, like he’d vandalised something sacred, makes Jackson doubt he’ll be back in the afternoon, he’s eager for a chance to explain himself. 

Even though there’s really not much to explain. It’s not like their walk home together is a private, special thing, right? Besides, Jackson’s allowed to have a life outside of the one caught up in the past. It’s not like it’s  _ illegal  _ for him to have other friends and do the things friends do. Mark’s anger is completely uncalled for.

So why does the guilt settled atop Jackson’s shoulders feel like it’s all his fault?

The bell rings, then, a harsh trilling sound that seems to reverberate through the room and trigger a collective release of breath at having survived yet another day. Jackson stands up hurriedly, grabbing his book bag from where it’s dangling by a strap off the back of his chair, and almost makes it out of the room before a tap on his shoulder makes him turn around.

There’s a boy he’s never seen before, strong jawline softened by gentle eyes, shuffling his feet and blinking at Jackson with a look the most akin to a spooked deer he’s ever seen. Jackson realizes he’s probably glaring and softens his gaze, standing upright before gritting out a polite, friendly “Yes?”

“We want to recruit you,” he blurts out. “We’re starting a dance team with a couple of people from another school and we want you to join.” He looks scared shitless, and Jackson wonders why the hell anyone thought putting him up for this job was a good idea. “Bambam and Yugyeom are already in.”

Jackson thinks about this offer. It’s true, he used to be a dancer, but he hasn’t danced in two years, aside from the occasional tricking to impress people or at family conventions when people ask him to. He’s tipping towards ‘No’, since he’s already busy with fencing and homework, plus if it’s after school it’ll mean cancelling on Mark, but catches the way the boy looks at him, like he knows something he doesn’t.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Jackson asks. The boy startles, surprised, and turns red.

“It- It’s just that - you have this really longing look on your face,” he stammers, backing away as if Jackson is a panther ready to strike. 

He realizes how tense his shoulders are, then, and realizes the analogy wasn’t too far off. He sighs. “Fine.”

The way he brightens and extends a hand to introduce himself as Youngjae, a freshman, makes Jackson think that maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

\--

Jackson reaches the corner of the school where they usually meet up just as Mark is turning away.

Even as he shouts, “Mark!” and runs faster than he does when he’s late for class, he can’t help but notice the defeated slouch of Mark’s shoulders, the trepidation in the way he drags his feet like he just wants to wait a couple minutes more but has already been waiting for too long. Jackson throws a glance at his phone in his hand, and winces. He’s half an hour late.

“You’re here,” Mark says quietly, still facing away from Jackson, the subtle turn of his head the only indication that he’s even addressing him.

“Sorry,” Jackson says, out of breath despite only running, what, twenty feet? “I was held up. I don’t have any way to talk to you, so…”

Mark reaches behind him, and for a heart-stopping moment Jackson thinks he’s going to take his hand. But instead, he grabs the phone he’s holding, using so much force Jackson stumbles, catching himself an inch away from colliding with Mark’s back. 

A few clicks later (Jackson doesn’t have a password, something accumulated over three years of having Bambam disabling his phone for at least a good half hour), and Mark hands Jackson his phone back, his contact saved and starred as a primary one. 

Jackson lifts his eyes to fix them on the back of Mark’s head, the way his hair staggers to an end at the nape of his neck. “Mark,” he says softly. When Mark doesn’t turn, he reaches out and tugs a little on the hem of his school shirt, earning a sharp inhale. “Please look at me,” he begs.

“Is anyone with you?” Mark asks, quiet.

Jackson blinks, taken aback. “So  _ that’s  _ what this is about?” 

He flinches right after the words leave his mouth. The way he’s reacted, with such incredulity in his voice and such insensitivity to his words, makes him want to curl up in a hole and die. He opens his mouth to apologize, but is cut off by something like an inhale, but shorter, more watery…?

“Are you… crying?” Jackson asks, remembering to keep his tone soft. Mark shakes his head fervently, and Jackson can’t help but chuckle at how desperately he’s trying to conceal his tears. “Hey…” he says, his voice a little more teasing. “I’m sorry, okay? Please let me see you.”

“I don’t want you to,” Mark sniffles, digging in his pocket for tissues, and Jackson feels his knees melt at how adorable but broken Mark sounds. He’d felt bad for bringing Namjoon along, sure, but he didn’t know their walks together meant so much to Mark that tarnishing them, if just a smidgen, would cause him to cry like this. “You’re just going to blame this on yourself again.”

Jackson is taken aback for the second time this afternoon. “Mark, why would you…” he laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Why would this be your fault?” The words are common, simplistic, but there’s a different edge to them, alien even to the one who spoke them. It scares him, it really does, but seeing as it’s doing no harm, he decides to just mull over it later. There are more important things at hand.

“Because…” Mark sniffles. “This isn’t a big deal, anyway. It’s my fault for getting so hung up on something as petty as a five-minute walk.” Those words said in any other tone would have been accusing, but with Mark they’re soft-edged and genuine, like Mark himself. Jackson doesn’t know what to say, is afraid of what will come out if he tries to say something, so he just takes Mark by his shoulders and turns him gently. 

Mark has indeed been crying. His eyelids are puffy and red-rimmed, skin glistening with half-dried tears, eyes downcast with childlike shame. He won’t meet his eyes, Jackson notes as he fishes a crumpled but relatively clean wad of tissues from his pocket when Mark seems not to have found any.

“Here,” Jackson says, lifting Mark’s hand and pressing the tissues into his palm before turning and beginning the trek home, steps purposefully slow as he waits for Mark to clean up and catch up. Sure enough, Mark’s long strides appear in his peripheral vision, shadow flitting next to his own. Sighing in relief, Jackson plugs in his earbuds and turns the music up as loud as he can handle it, effectively cutting off any possible attempts at conversation and thus allowing him space to think.

To be completely honest, seeing Mark cry - or at least, undeniable proof of Mark crying - unnerves Jackson more than he can let on. He seemed like the type of person who never lost their cool, strong and beautiful like spider silk. It’s unfair to put such a huge burden on him, Jackson knows; everyone is just human, after all. But there’s something about Mark’s breakdown that’s a little rawer, a little more vulnerable than most people’s. Something more precious, more fragile.

And now Jackson knows. Mark, spider silk Mark with the crystal-blond hair, is gradually unraveling before him. Perhaps Jackson has broken him more than he has realized. 

Perhaps, Jackson thinks with a falter in his heartbeat, Mark needs this just as much as he does.

“Mark?” Jackson asks quietly, pulling his earbuds out and leaving a ringing sound in his ears. “Can I ask you something?”

Jackson can sense Mark’s hesitation in the palpitating silence that follows before he says, “Sure.”

“Why did you put up with it?” Jackson says. He can hear Mark inhaling sharply, and stalls his reaction by adding hastily, “Not like how I asked it before. I’m just wondering. You could have told me to stop or something, but you didn’t say anything. Why?”

“Not right now,” Mark responds. Jackson is alarmed at the amount of desperation contained in those quiet words, those eleven letters.  _ Not right now _ .

Jackson stuffs his earbuds back in his ears, and they spend the rest of the walk home in silence, something foreign bubbling underneath Jackson’s skin and the edge in his voice from before finding its way into Jackson’s thoughts. But instead of being terrified, Jackson is strangely comforted. Like this is how it’s supposed to be, an unfamiliar feeling pulsing behind his temples. Like everything will work out.

So, when they’ve reached the end of Jackson’s driveway and Mark, as per usual, begins to turn away, Jackson reaches out and grabs hold of the hem of his sleeve at the very last minute. The force makes Mark stumble back a bit, and he turns to him with wide eyes, searching Jackson’s expression for an answer.

“Stay,” Jackson says, and the look on Mark’s face takes his breath away.

\--

Jackson drops his bag by the door once they walk in, holding it open for Mark when he enters behind him. “Make yourself at home,” Jackson says. “You can dump your stuff on the couch. Coffee?”

Mark shakes his head, light glittering in his eyes. “Water is fine, thanks.”

As Mark settles on the couch in the living room, Jackson makes himself busy in the kitchen. Due to the lack of a female figure around the house, the kitchen is usually filled with crappy imitations of cooking and ridiculously unhealthy takeout. Thankfully, though, Jackson manages to find some macarons they’d never had the chance to finish, and assembles the ones that aren’t crushed or funky-smelling on a clean plate he finds. He’s glad no one really uses the living room - it’s the only clean place in the entire house. The rest of it is pure testosterone-driven, college-student-like mess.

Mark is standing at the window flipping through a book, eyes warm as his pale fingers support the worn, dusty cover and holds it upright. Jackson’s heart leaps promptly into his throat, and he finds it difficult to speak as he clears his throat and motions to the macarons.

Jackson watches as Mark gingerly takes a green one from the plate and bites into it, face brightening and Jackson’s guessing he’s never tasted one before. Which is strange, really, considering Mark lives above a bakery, but he dismisses it and blurts out, “You should meet my friends sometime.”

Mark’s actions halt abruptly, and he turns unreadable eyes at Jackson. “Why?”

“Um-” Jackson’s throat clogs up, and he can feel his face burning under Mark’s heavy gaze. “I- just- I just thought it would be nice if you did. You know. Since we’re friends?” He ends the last sentence as a question, and peers up hopefully into Mark’s eyes.

Mark seems to soften as he considers the question, shoulders relaxing. “Are we friends?”

For some reason, Jackson bristles at Mark’s uncertainty, even though he’d been just as hesitant seconds ago. “Of course we are! I mean, we don’t really know all that much about each other, but there’s always time, right? In fact, we can start now. What’s your favorite color?”

“Red,” Mark says, voice unusually quiet (even for Mark).

“Why?” Jackson teases, resisting the urge to poke Mark in the side like he does with the rest of his friends. “Because it’s the color of  _ looove _ ? Of  _ passion? _ ”

Mark rolls his eyes, but the look on his face is one of endeared amusement. “Sure, why not.”

Jackson laughs, loud and brash and hyena-like, a grating sound compared to Mark’s. “Okay, your turn,” he says, falling onto the couch (that promptly squeaks in annoyance). “Ask me something.”

To Jackson’s relief and delight, Mark complies, sitting down a respectable distance from Jackson and taking another macaron from the plate on the table.  “What’s your favorite season?”

“That’s boring,” Jackson whines, kicking his feet up onto the tea table. Mark’s quiet presence is comfortable and familiar, and Jackson finds himself wondering why he hadn’t invited him over earlier. “I expected something deep from you. Oh well. Summer, I guess.”

“Why?”

Jackson smiles, thinking of sunshine and laughter and ice cream mustaches. “It tastes like freedom, I guess. Like the best part of being young.”

When he looks back at Mark, he’s smiling a different smile, quiet and gentle and something that makes butterflies swarm in Jackson’s stomach.

\--

They spend the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening going back-and-forth like this, learning about each other through laughter and melted macarons steeped in Mark’s warm eyes. As the sun eases into the horizon, Jackson finds himself pressed against Mark’s warm body, feeling the vibrations through his ribcage whenever he laughs. Somewhere along the way, they had gradually edged closer to each other, and were now sitting flush against each other as if they’d known each other since they were born, like this moment was predestined.

Somewhere along the way, Jackson gets lost in the twinkle of Mark’s eyes, and finally realizes what it had been in his voice earlier in the afternoon, the edge, the alien comfort. It was the same thing that had put the glimmer in Mark’s eyes, the warmth in his laugh.

Fondness. Jackson had been speaking to him with fondness.

Jackson thinks that if Mark’s unraveling, he wouldn’t mind stitching him back up.

\--

“Do you want to know why I let you do what you did?” Mark says softly as they’re standing out on the front porch, skin dappled by the night sky, a rectangle of light glowing from Jackson’s open door.

Jackson swallows, and nods mutely.

Mark smiles. “You looked like you needed to.”


	3. Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a warm, saturated Wednesday, about a week after Mark stayed over at his house, Jackson stays after school for the dance team’s first practice of the year.

On a warm, saturated Wednesday, about a week after Mark stayed over at his house, Jackson stays after school for the dance team’s first practice of the year. Despite his insistence that dance is nothing more than a faded hobby, he can’t help the excitement simmering underneath his heartbeat as he rocks back and forth on his feet in the dance studio. 

He’s the only one there, and reveres in the peaceful hum of the AC before a knock sounds at the door, a series of rapid-fire sounds like gunshots. “Come in!” he yells, and the door creaks open to let in three seniors, all taller and considerably more mature-looking than him.

He assesses them as they walk into the room, the unfamiliarity making the air thick with unspoken tension. The first is tall, almost six feet, with messy dark reddish-brown hair falling into his eyes, large black-framed hipster glasses and a sense of authority and confidence in his stride. The one who follows soon after has gentle eyes and black hair combed straight over his forehead, offering a small but surprisingly genuine smile to rebuff the almost scathing look the first one had shot Jackson.

Jackson is assessing how to avoid any and all clashes with the scary guy when the third person enters the room, and everything occupying Jackson’s mind is bumped down to second priority.

Mark blinks at him from the other side of the dance studio, looking every bit as shocked as Jackson feels. His hair is sticking up in tufts at the top of his head like someone had been ruffling it, and Jackson feels a pang of jealousy ring in his ribcage.

“I didn’t know you danced,” he blurts out, turning red when the other two swivel around to look at him.

To his surprise, Mark breaks out into a smile that eclipses the sunlight flooding the room. “I started freshman year. That’s how I met these guys.” He gestures to the two seniors, both of which are staring at him with a new look in their eyes. “Jackson, meet Jaebum and Jinyoung. Guys, this is Jackson.”

Upon hearing Jackson’s name, Jaebum’s eyes darken so quickly Jackson hasn’t been able to process it fully before he’s taking a step forward, the menacing set of his mouth sending panic alarms blaring all over Jackson’s mind. Jinyoung steps forward, putting a hand on his arm, although the look he gives Jackson is not unlike the one Jaebum is glowering at him with now.

“So you’re the bastard who ruined Mark’s childhood,” Jaebum says, his voice cold. “I should kill you.”

Mark opens his mouth, looking alarmed, but Jackson cuts him off with an accepting nod of the head. “Go ahead,” he says, trying his best to appear calm despite the fear that clouds his vision. “I deserve it.” 

Jackson’s reply seems to surprise Jaebum, because he hesitates just enough for Mark to slip between them, eyes fixated on Jaebum. “Calm down,” he orders, the leashed power in his voice sending chills down Jackson’s spine. Whenever he spoke to Jackson, Mark’s voice was always soft - teasing, sure, frustrated, maybe, but always soft. 

This - the new, unfamiliar, strikingly hostile edge in his voice - terrifies Jackson.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson says, feeling his courage buckle at the way Mark’s friends are staring at him. Even Jinyoung, whom Jackson can tell is a kind person within two minutes of knowing him, has such unadulterated hatred burning in his stare that Jackson recoils reflexively, wanting to shield his face. “Maybe I should go.”

He turns to leave, but is stopped mid-stride by a hand on his arm. He lifts his eyes to find Mark uncomfortably close, a sort of desperate sincerity in his eyes that makes Jackson’s breath pause in his throat.

“It’s fine,” he says firmly, shooting a look over his shoulder at his friends before dropping his hand to rest on the hem of Jackson’s sleeve, just a few slips away from holding his hand. “Please stay.”

Jackson swallows, throat too dry to answer, just as the door slams open with a startling  _ thump  _ and Bambam strides in, dragging Yugyeom and Youngjae by their collars. His eyes assess the situation in record time, and he squares his feet and says, loud enough to reverberate across the room, “Anyone who messes with Jackson Wang will have to answer to  _ me _ .”

Jackson swallows, face turning red at Bambam’s display of affection. “Bambam,” he hisses, stepping forward. “You don’t have to do this.”

Bambam looks at him incredulously. “Really? So you’re just going to let  _ them _ do this to you?”

“Hey.” Jaebum, who had been silent for a while, speaks up now, stepping forward. “What do you mean by  _ them _ ? We aren’t the bad guys.”

“What do you mean, you aren’t the bad guys? All I see is you cornering Jackson for  _ no reason _ -...” Bambam’s sentence trails off into a growl, and Yugyeom and Youngjae quickly transition from being held by the collar to holding him back. Panic is steadily crescendoing in Jackson’s heart, thrumming in his ears, and as he watches the scene unfurl before him he has a sense of watching everything fall apart.

Until, of course, Mark steps in.

“Hi,” he blurts out, extending a hand. Bambam blinks in surprise, probably not even realizing he’d been there the entire time - Mark has the ability to melt into the shadows when he wants to, and besides, he had been too focused on Jaebum to really notice anything else. “I’m Mark.”

Bambam’s jaw slackens so quickly he resembles a fish out of water, looking back and forth between Jackson and Mark with wide eyes. “ _ Mark  _ Mark? Damn, you’re actually kind of hot,” he jokes, and Jackson notices with a sigh of relief that he’s gradually easing back into his usual shameless flirting mode. “No wonder Jackson’s been so distracted lately.”

Mark laughs as Jackson splutters indignantly, feeling betrayed. “I am  _ not _ !”

“Please,” Bambam scoffs, rolling his eyes. “You’ve been staring at the sky like it’s Song Ga Yeon’s thighs for the past month. I’ve gotten into the habit of calling you twice before you answer.”

“He has a point,” Yugyeom decides to pipe up, and Jackson groans.

“I need new friends,” he says, (half) pretending to mope.

\--

Bambam’s teasing lightens the mood, and after a few cliche (but  _ very interesting)  _ ice-breakers they’re joking around like they’ve been friends their entire life, and although Jaebum stiffens whenever Jackson comes near him, he’s grinning and chatting with Bambam like the argument before never happened.

Meanwhile, Jackson sits in the corner watching as everyone gets to know each other, all thoughts of rehearsing or doing anything dance-related leaving all of them. He’s grateful that everyone’s getting along, but his mind is too occupied to join in, replaying what Bambam had said over and over.

_ Damn, he’s actually kind of hot. _

Jackson finds himself staring at Mark, chatting freely with Youngjae. From the first time Mark had found him after fencing practice a month ago, maybe in elementary school when Jackson was still set on making him snap, he’d subconsciously noted how attractive Mark was. Now, though, he sees him in a slightly different light, noticing things he’d brushed past before.

Like the slope of Mark’s cheekbones, or the subtly masculine line of his jaw. The soft curve of his nose, the stretch of his lips, his eyes just a little bit empty, a little bit forlorn, but still the prettiest Jackson’s ever seen.

Mark glances over, then, their eyes meeting for an electrifying second, and Jackson can’t seem to catch his breath. He smiles and Jackson’s drowning, and realizes in a startling heartbeat that he won’t mind being pulled under, closing his eyes in the crystal-clear water of Mark’s irises.

Jackson snaps back to reality to find Mark’s smile fading, being replaced by a strange look, the tips of his ears blushing a faint red. He offers a faint, perfunctory smile that feels more like a grimace, and forces himself to turn away.

He can see in the mirrors of the dance studio the way Mark’s face falls, how he’s just a little distracted when Jinyoung tries to talk to him.

\--

Finally, when there’s only thirty minutes left of their allotted time in the dance studio, Jaebum suddenly realizes they’re there for a reason and gets out his laptop, opening it up to nine people in an obviously high-end dance studio, gleaming wood floors reflecting the rows of lights hidden in crannies across the ceiling.

The video opens up with the first notes of a dance song, the singer’s voice dripping with so much ego and swagger that Jackson is compelled to stand up and just freestyle. “Learn the dance before practice next week and we can see who’ll be in the back and who’ll be in the front,” Jaebum explains as the dancers run across the stage with practiced carelessness. “Follow the guy in the white shirt for now, and we can change the moves next time.”

Everyone choruses an agreement, because although no one’s really officially the leader Jaebum radiates a quiet authority, a power only attainable through experience, and although their relationship is still rocky Jackson can’t help but admit he’s the best guy for the job.

They leave after exchanging phone numbers, Jinyoung’s eyebrows disappearing into his hairline when he sees that Mark’s contact is not only already in Jackson’s phone but is also a primary one. Youngjae is picked up by his older sister, Bambam trails Yugyeom home, and Jaebum and Jinyoung take the bus, leaving Mark and Jackson to walk home together, as usual. 

On the way home, Jackson finds his eyes wandering to where Mark is, walking by his side. Although Jackson knows he can’t possibly miss his blatant staring, he doesn’t make eye contact; his ears are still tinged that curious shade of red, eyes fixated on the horizon before them.

In the soft colors of the sunset, Jackson can’t help but admire the way Mark’s face glows in the orange sunlight, the tips of his hair lit on fire; his Adam’s apple bobs slightly as he swallows, dark eyes reflecting the sky. Jackson keeps trying to start a conversation, but the words that had come so easily and naturally before now seem to be stuck in his throat, the look on Mark’s face silencing him wordlessly.

He’s feeling crushingly disappointed when they reach his house and Mark still hasn’t said a word yet; but when he turns to leave he feels a hand on his wrist, just a light tap that freezes him in place.

He turns to find Mark looking at him with achingly hopeful eyes, the fading sunset dusting across his cheekbones. “Do you want to practice the dance together?”

\--

Gradually, to Jackson’s delight, the atmosphere between them once again returns to the carefree ease of friendship. As the days go by, he’s starting to think less and less about what he did three years ago, and instead enjoying what he has with Mark now. It’s not like it doesn’t matter anymore, because it  _ does  _ and Jackson’s still a long way from making it up to him, but it’s become less about the guilt and more about simply enjoying Mark’s company.

They’re lying on the ground after their fifth run-through of the first verse, both spent and soaked through with sweat. Jackson, having the foresight to grab two water bottles from the cellar before starting, drops a bottle on Mark’s stomach, too lazy to even hand it to him. Mark laughs, and picks the bottle up gratefully.

“Do you ever just lie down and never want to get back up?” Jackson asks, staring at the blinding light on the living room ceiling. Beside him, Mark hums, his slow, soft breathing gradually synchronizing with Jackson’s. 

“No one’s pressuring you to do anything,” he says quietly, voice deep. “The world seems to stop spinning, and suddenly nothing really matters.”

_ Exactly, _ Jackson thinks, and presses a smile into his hand. They fall into a deep, comfortable silence like still water, both lost in their own thoughts. Jackson’s heart slows so much he’s almost asleep, and it’s in that sleep-induced stupor that he turns to face Mark, and his world abruptly stops.

Mark, only a foot away, is staring at him with something that can only be described as fondness, eyes warm and inviting like the soft dulcet blue at the edge of a sunset, like the fragmented gray of rain. The bright living room light casts shadows across his features, mountains and valleys in the dips and ridges of his face.

Jackson has never wanted to kiss someone so much in his entire life.

But just as quickly as the impulse comes, it leaves him. A crushing guilt takes its place and Jackson starts shaking, pulling himself to his feet and wavering slightly before regaining his balance, knees suddenly weak. Mark stands up too, an alarmed look on his face, but it only makes the bitter remorse worse, and Jackson can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

He has absolutely no right to even  _ think  _ about kissing Mark. How could he have thought that he’d even come  _ close  _ to making up for what he’d done in the past? He’d ruined Mark’s childhood, and here he was, thinking it was okay for him to just barge back into his life and demand so much attention, waste so much time; he even went so far as to think he made Mark happy.

“Jackson,” Mark says, his voice muffled as if travelling through water. “What’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

“I think you should go home,” Jackson blurts out, and the way Mark’s face falls crushes Jackson’s heart. Nonetheless, he swims through the tears and the pain and the regret and guides Mark to the door, even though he’s already familiar with Jackson’s house. Mark tries to protest, tries to ask what’s wrong, but Jackson can barely hear him through the crooked pounding of his heart in his ears.

Just as Jackson is about to slam the door shut, Mark is standing in the doorway again, eyes dark and bitterly confused. “Listen,” he says, a note of desperation in his voice preventing Jackson from closing the door in his face, “do you want to know the real reason red is my favorite color?”

When Jackson doesn’t answer, he leans in close, too close, breath hot against his ear as he whispers, “It reminds me of you.”

Mark closes the door on his own, leaving Jackson to stand there in stunned, heartbroken silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this is too rushed?! (Actually the entire thing is just a car wreck of a plot so FML *lies facedown in a corner*)  
> Please relieve me from my stress (or send me into a downwards spiral of negativity, both work) by commenting!!!


	4. The Space Between Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Then what made you keep going?” Jaebum asks. “You were the ringleader, after all.”  
> Jackson winces at the title, harsher than he’d preferred but no less appropriate. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he mumbles under his breath, but Jaebum catches it anyway.  
> “And did satisfaction bring it back?” he asks, only a slight tinge of sarcasm in his voice.  
> Jackson lifts his head, then, meeting Jaebum’s eyes dead-on for the first time he can remember. “No,” he says, voice cracking. “Regret did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FML I'M AN IDIOT I FORGOT THIS CHAPTER EXISTED TO I POSTED THE NEXT CHAPTER FIRST I'M SO SORRY FOR ALL THE CONFUSION  
> This chapter is honestly just a fuckton of angst let's be honest here

The next day, like the male lead in some angsty teen drama, Jackson mopes.

To be fair, it’s a decent improvement from the night before, where, after Mark left, Jackson spent an inglorious hour curled up on the couch sobbing. He knows it’s unfair to reject Mark without explanation, especially when he had looked so vulnerable, but he can’t find the strength to face him again.

His miserable mood eventually gets so oppressive that the teacher, after calling on Jackson for the fifth time only for him to turn his sleep-deprived, empty eyes on her, sends him to the nurse, ordering him to ‘talk it out and come back when you aren’t PMS-ing’. 

At the nurse’s office, he doesn’t make much progress in terms of emotions, instead choosing to lie facedown on one of the beds and listen to the sickly breathing of the person in the next room, probably down with a fever the poor guy.

When school ends, he puts the most effort he’s had the entire day into  _ not  _ making it to Mark’s and his meeting place; instead, he asks Jimin, who’s part of an underground dance group, for help with the dance they’re learning, and thus stays after school until he’s got every single angle, every single shift of weight down to a t. His phone vibrates every few minutes, Mark’s name flashing on the screen, but as he ignores the call every time, the interval between calls and messages grows wider and wider until Mark stops calling altogether.

“Take a break,” Jimin advises, stretching his legs and leaning back onto his elbows. Jackson has always envied his body: more flexible than most girls’, always moving with lean, lithe grace, muscles rippling underneath tanned skin, Jimin is nothing short of a Calvin Klein underwear model. Hell, he’s known some guys who’ve questioned their sexualities after seeing the guy’s ass.

“Jimin,” Jackson says, once again lying on the ground and blinking up at the blinding ceiling lights, “what do you do when you need to make it up to someone, but know that your presence is a burden to them?”

“You mean, like you don’t deserve them?” Jimin’s voice is suddenly very, very quiet, and Jackson vividly recalls one of the fights he’d had with Yoongi, his boyfriend and resident musical genius (although Namjoon isn’t far behind), in front of everyone to see.

“Yeah,” Jackson mumbles, feeling the chill of the smooth, cool wood of the dance floor seeping into his skin through the thin fabric of his threadbare shirt. “Yeah, kind of like that.”

He looks up in the mirror, then, and sees the sorrow reflected in Jimin’s eyes. “You still have to make it up to them,” he says. “You can’t just cut them off. That hurts more than anything. Make it up to them, and if you still think you don’t deserve them, ask. You’d be surprised how many fights can be avoided through simple communication.”

Jackson stays silent, mulling over Jimin’s words. Jimin’s right - no matter how much better Mark deserves, he still has to make it up to him. “Maybe I’ll just resolve it and then leave,” he says aloud, not even convincing himself, and Jimin turns sympathetic eyes on him. 

“That’ll just hurt you, too,” Jimin says, and Jackson thinks about spider-silk hair, a quiet smile.

\--

The next day, Mark isn’t waiting for him.

A lump in his throat, Jackson glances at the 12 missed calls and 14 messages in his log, all from Mark. He glances at his watch. It’s fifteen minutes after when they usually meet up, and Mark is one of the most punctual people Jackson knows. The empty space where Mark usually stands echoes hollow, its message ringing loud and clear - Mark has given up on Jackson.

Jackson trudges home, earbuds in, and presses shuffle on his iPod.

When Jay Chou’s Silence starts playing, it’s all Jackson can do not to cry right then and there.

\--

On the third day of not seeing Mark, Yugyeom finally persuades Jackson to read all the messages he’s purposefully avoided looking at. Usually Bambam follows him on the way home with some flimsy excuse everyone except Yugyeom sees through, but today he’s been held back for talking in class, and although Jackson knows he’ll have to deal with a whiny over-dramatic Bambam tomorrow, he’s glad for some alone time with his quiet but jarringly wise dongsaeng.

Fueled by Yugyeom’s mom’s cookies and Yugyeom’s slightly passive-aggressive encouragement, Jackson finally musters enough courage to open the chat he has with Mark. A long string of messages slowly load onto the screen, and Jackson takes one glance at the first one his eyes land on before throwing his phone across the room and burying his face in a couch pillow, wailing loud enough to send Yugyeom’s mother hurrying in worriedly from the kitchen.

_ It’s all my fault, isn’t it _ ? The text reads.

\--

“How can he think it’s his fault?” Jackson asks shrilly over the phone as he trudges to fencing practice. It’s Sunday, so there’s no chance of seeing Mark; and while normally Jackson would feel a little empty, today there’s an aching hole in his chest, feeling like it could swallow his ribcage.

“You didn’t exactly provide an explanation,” Namjoon says sarcastically, sounding mildly exasperated after listening to Jackson rant. “It’s not his fault for misinterpreting things.”

“So what do I  _ do _ ?” Jackson all but shrieks, making a few people around him turn their heads in alarm. 

“Um, I don’t know, actually talk to him and  _ explain _ ?” Now Namjoon just sounds dead-beat exhausted, a long sigh punctuated by the crackling of static and the shuffling of papers from the other end of the line. “You’re blowing this way out of proportion. Just tell him that you don’t feel like you deserve to be around him, and everything will be resolved.”

“But I don’t think I  _ can _ ,” Jackson says, remembering all too vividly the inky darkness of Mark’s eyes, the infinite kaleidoscope of emotions flickering across his face at any given second. “I can’t explain this, but it feels like I won’t be able to face him without, like, dropping dead or something. You know?”

“Oh, I know,” Namjoon says, something different in his voice. “I know exactly what you’re talking about.”

They hang up five minutes later, leaving Jackson to ponder.

It terrifies him, this new feeling, the magnetic pull of Mark’s smile imprinted in his memory.

\--

On Monday, Jackson wakes up sick as a dog, head pulsing with the heat of an oncoming fever and throat dry and rough as sandpaper. When he speaks, he can barely hear his voice; and his dad, having no experience in taking care of anything, gives up after he throws up his third attempt at eating and heads to work.

After spending nearly the entire day curled up on the couch with a blanket and several pillows, watching chick flicks interspersed with occasional bouts of vomiting, Jackson is scrolling through his phone, some random episode of How I Met Your Mother playing quietly in the background.

He’s chatting with both Bambam and Namjoon, complaining about the feeling of throwing up, when, switching between the two chats, he accidentally presses on the one he has with Mark, that’s been lying silent since the day at the dance studio with Jimin almost a week ago. 

_ Has it been a week _ ? Jackson thinks weakly, blinking the fever out of his eyes.  _ It feels like it’s been forever. _

_ Or at least, the hole in my chest tells me it has. _

He scrolls upwards, intending to re-visit an earlier conversation that still makes him laugh, when his eyes accidentally land on the first message Mark had sent him that night, the first one he’d ignored.

_ I’m worried about you. _

Heart in his throat, Jackson scrolls down, trepidation spreading like thick black oil. 

_ At least tell me what’s wrong _ , the next one says.

_ Jackson, please. _

_ It’s all my fault, isn’t it? _

_ I messed up, didn’t I. _

_ I’m sorry. _

_ Please say something. Anything. _

_ Jackson, stop avoiding me. _

_ Why are you doing this?  _

_ This isn’t like you. _

_ Is it what I said, about red reminding me of you? _

_ We can just forget about it, if you want. _

_ I’ll seriously do anything. Just please say something. _

_ I miss you. _

Jackson puts his phone down, leaning back and closing his eyes, illness forgotten. He can still see the cheerful blue of the message bubble behind his eyelids, the words imprinted on them.

_ We can just forget about it. _

_ But that’s the thing, Mark, _ Jackson thinks, an unspeakable sadness overcoming him as he stares at his phone, face-down on the couch.

_ I can’t forget about it. _

\--

Jackson’s illness clears up the next day, but his mood is no less sombre when he trudges to school. During class, Jackson puts up enough of an effort to participate so that his teachers leave him alone with nothing more than a concerned look, unaware of the war raging inside Jackson’s mind.

He thinks of both Jimin’s and Namjoon’s words, the way they click together to make perfect sense. They’d both told him to talk to Mark, stressing on the importance of communication and the continuation of his - whatever it is - with Mark.

So Jackson knows what he has to do. But then he thinks of warm breath against the shell of his ear, and his resolve crumbles.

\--

When Jackson sprints onto the courtyard, shaking his sweaty, post-PE hair out of his eyes, he’s surprised and more than a little terrified to find Jaebum standing in Mark’s place, checking his watch impatiently as if Jackson’s thirty minutes late instead of just five. He looks up, then, just as Jackson freezes mid-stride, and beckons him over, making it clear who he’s here for.

Jackson looks over his shoulder hopefully anyways.

“Listen,” Jaebum starts once Jackson’s within earshot, not even waiting for his feet to stop moving, “whatever this -  _ stalemate  _ \- is between you and Mark, it needs to stop now.”

Jackson blinks. “I don’t-”

“And don’t pull that ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ shit on me, Jackson, because I know you know  _ exactly  _ what I’m talking about. Look,” Jaebum pinches the bridge of his nose in a rather insulting way, Jackson’ll have you know, but it’s with the exhaustion of one being forced to watch a friend suffer that he says, “You know he didn’t come to school the day after dance practice?”

Jackson chokes on his spit, the familiar feeling of guilt burning in his throat returning. “He  _ didn’t _ ? Shit, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“Then what  _ did  _ you mean?” Jaebum’s tone is less angry and more frustrated. “All he can say is that you don’t want to be around him anymore, that he messed up everything. What did you do?”

Jackson’s eyes widen at the information, and he smacks himself in the forehead. “This is all my fault,” he mumbles, eyes downcast, suddenly unable to look Jaebum straight-on. “I- I just- I felt bad for barging into his life like that and wasting his time when I don’t even deserve to exist on the same dimension as him. I thought if I left him alone and stopped being so selfish and trying to make up for what I’d done just so I would stop feeling guilty he’d be happier.”

A palpable silence stretches after Jackson stops speaking, making him feel exposed, vulnerable, before Jaebum very loudly goes, “Jackson Wang, you are the most idiotic, dense person I have ever met. Look,” Jaebum’s voice softens, if just a little, “you may be too bone-headed to see it, but you mean a lot to Mark, you know that?”

Jackson can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Okay, now I  _ really _ don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

Jaebum sighs with something that looks like resentment etched on his face, his tired eyes and messy hair. “Before you came along, Mark hardly ever laughed. Like, he smiled a lot, and we knew he was happy, but he rarely laughed. Now we hear it  _ every day _ . And the way he looks at you makes it look like you put the stars in the sky, and trust me when I say he really loves stars. Jinyoung and I spent  _ three years  _ to get Mark to even let us put our hand on his shoulder, and he’s holding your hand and leaning into your personal space and smiling the stupidest smile I’ve ever seen.

“It’s fucked up that  _ you  _ of all people can make him so happy,” Jaebum finishes, “but you do. And now he’s crushed. So fix it.”

_ Fix it _ , Jackson thinks, wondering why those two words in particular seem to haunt him. It’s the vow he made after Mark left, when the burden of what he’d done had come crashing down; it’s what Jaebum’s telling him now, eyes reproachful but sincere, as he asks (more like demands) Jackson if he can walk home with him in Mark’s place.

“I shut it out,” Jackson blurts out as they’re rounding a corner. He forgot his earbuds back home in the morning and Jaebum didn’t bring any, so they were forced to suffer a painfully awkward silence, broken only by the sound of their footfalls, magnified by the lack of sound. “The regret, I mean. I pretended I couldn’t feel it.”

Jaebum turns to him. “What made you realize?” he asks, like a shrink sitting in a stuffy office.

Jackson laughs humorlessly. “My friends,” he says. “If you can even call them that. When we were - you know - bullying Mark, they were always laughing these really ugly laughs. But I couldn’t even bring myself to smile. I realized soon enough that I didn’t really want to do what I was doing.”

“Then what made you keep going?” Jaebum asks. “You were the ringleader, after all.”

Jackson winces at the title, harsher than he’d preferred but no less appropriate. “Curiosity killed the cat,” he mumbles under his breath, but Jaebum catches it anyway.

“And did satisfaction bring it back?” he asks, only a slight tinge of sarcasm in his voice.

Jackson lifts his head, then, meeting Jaebum’s eyes dead-on for the first time he can remember. “No,” he says, voice cracking. “Regret did.”

\--

“Did Mark tell you why he let you?” Jaebum asks as Jackson turns to wave at him, standing at the end of the driveway with his hands in his pockets and his head tilted to the side.

Jackson blinks, surprised at the sudden and deft question. “He said it looked like I needed to.”

Jaebum shakes his head, a sad smile on his face, as if thinking  _ that idiot _ . “That’s not even half of it.”

\--

The next day, Jackson waits for the second dance team meet-up with equal parts trepidation and anticipation, heart hammering so hard he can feel his pulse in his neck without even touching it. He knows Bambam, Yugyeom and Youngjae will probably be later than him, since their teachers had the tendency to carry class on after the bell has rung, so he trudges to the dance studio alone, head down.

He rounds the corner just in time to see the three from the other school entering the hallway as well, ducking his head and feeling blood rush to his face when he hears Mark’s squeaky laugh. Jaebum’s words strike him - had he really been the cause of this? Had something so brash and rough-cut as him been the cause of something so precious?

He faintly registers Jaebum telling Mark that he and Jinyoung need to run an errand and will be right back. All of a sudden, panic crashes into him like giant tsunami waves of inner screaming and he snaps his head up, eyes wide, only to catch Jinyoung’s wink and Jaebum’s pointed look as they turn on their heels simultaneously and leave him alone in the hall with Mark.

Jackson stares at the ground, wishing it could open up and swallow him, spit him out on the other side of the world where he isn’t burdened by regret and the ridiculously confusing human being that is Mark Tuan.Just like that day a month ago, a different pair of shoes enters his vision, and Jackson is forced to look up, prepared for whatever look will be on Mark’s face, standing too close yet much too far.

What he isn’t prepared for, though, is the shock of black hair curling above Mark’s forehead.

Gaping wordlessly, he lets his eyes roam over Mark’s general composure. His hair is a midnight black, too dark to be natural, and gelled into a messy comb-over. The blazer that’s been an integral part of his uniform has disappeared, and the shirtsleeves on his dress shirt are rolled up to the elbows with effortless crispness. 

In general, Mark looks stunning, dashing, handsome. It seems, Jackson realizes with a strange wrench in his gut, that Jaebum had been lying, and the past week had had zero effect on Mark.

He takes a step towards Mark, hoping to joke off whatever had happened between them last week, but Mark’s eyes darken, promptly crushing Jackson’s heart and hopes athe same time.

“Is that what this all was?” Mark’s voice is soft, and Jackson swallows hard at the wounded look on his face. “Easing the guilt?”

Jackson blinks in surprise, having no idea what he’s talking about. “Mark-”

“‘Resolve it and then leave’. That’s what you said, right?” Mark laughs, an ugly, humorless sound, and Jackson suddenly understands.

“Oh my God, Mark, no,” he says quietly, reaching out and grabbing Mark’s hand, too fast for him to bat it away. “No, that was- I could never do that to you, Mark. You know that.”

_ Please tell me you know that,  _ Jackson pleads mentally.

“Really?” Jackson’s hopes rise at the word, but fall again at the hardened steel in Mark’s eyes. “Then what was that? ‘Just joking around’?”

The words hit Jackson like a slap to the face.

He staggers backwards like Mark has actually, physically hit him, breathing rough and uneven. He knows what Mark’s implying, knows  _ exactly  _ what he’s referencing.

_ Just joking around,  _ Jackson had said when he’d strung Mark’s shoes atop countless utility poles. 

_ Just joking around,  _ Jackson had said after launching a verbal onslaught against Mark, the boy’s eyes so broken his voice had felt like shattered glass in his throat.

_ Just joking around,  _ Jackson had explained desperately to the stone-faced principal after Mark had left and everyone had turned their backs on him, pinpointing him as the sole source of Mark’s suffering.

Mark’s message is crystal clear.

He doesn’t think Jackson has changed at all.

The realization shakes Jackson to the very core and he sits down hard, leaning his back against the lockers and burying his head in his hands. He knows he doesn’t have the right to feel adamant or insulted or even hurt, so it’s out of frustration that tears seep into his skin, drip through the cracks in his fingers.

“Please don’t leave me,” he pleads, voice breaking on a sob, shoulders shaking. “You have no idea how lonely I am without you.”

“Then why did you leave?” Mark’s voice is still a little rough around the edges, but the softness is back, the spider-silk fondness. “Why did you ignore all my calls?”

“Because I don’t deserve you, damnit!” Jackson exclaims, slamming a fist down onto the floor. Pain ricochets up his hand and he can feel a bruise forming on his fingers, but he barely notices through the tears, drunk on sadness. “I don’t deserve to be near you or think about you or want to kiss you as much as I do,” he says weakly.

A thick silence coats them, settles atop Jackson’s hunched shoulders like dust on forgotten furniture, and Jackson thinks for a panicked second that Mark’s left.

Then a familiar pair of hands, warm and soft, fingers delicate, are on top of his, pulling his hands away from his face and revealing the inglorious sight of a post-sobbing Jackson. When he blinks the tears out of his vision the only things he can see are Mark’s stricken eyes, hopeful and disbelieving, beautiful as always.

“Do you really want to kiss me?” Mark asks like he still can’t quite believe it, and Jackson laughs at the ridiculousness of it all because who on Earth wouldn’t want to kiss Mark?

“Yes,” he says, and closes the space between them.


	5. Cemetery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Jackson, fifty years from now with a shiny, balding head and wire-framed circular grandpa spectacles, sat down and made a list of the worst decisions he’d ever made in his high school years, kissing Mark Tuan would probably make second on the list.  
> (You don’t want to know what’s first.)

If Jackson, fifty years from now with a shiny, balding head and wire-framed circular grandpa spectacles, sat down and made a list of the worst decisions he’d ever made in his high school years, kissing Mark Tuan would probably make second on the list.

(You don’t want to know what’s first.)

The first part goes fine. The first part, the shock circulating through Jackson’s body numbs him to the surrounding environment, so he doesn’t feel the guilt or the shame or Mark’s lips against his.

But then the second part comes, and the hurricane hits.

Because  _ Mark is kissing him back. _

If kissing Mark isn’t already the worst decision he’s ever made (well, close second), it definitely is now because now it’s clear Mark  _ wants  _ to kiss him, that he harbors feelings that go off the cliff of platonic relationships and into a dark, terrifying abyss that Jackson doesn’t want to even look down, much less jump into.

The thing is, Jackson doesn’t like Mark. Jackson isn’t even sure he’s  _ gay _ . Kissing Mark had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, hormones and guilt and lethal attractiveness on Mark’s part colliding into this supernova of bad mistakes. And now he’s gone and ruined their budding friendship after Jaebum told Jackson how much he meant to Mark, after he’d realized how much they both need this.

The friendship, he means. Not- whatever  _ this  _ is now, Mark kissing him back, lips hopeful.

_ This _ has ruined everything.

Jackson jerks back, mind reeling and heart ramming into his throat. His head slams painfully against the wall but he doesn’t care, just wants to get as far away from Mark as possible and curl in on himself like an armadillo and never go into the outside world again. 

The fog of panic and  _ something else, there’s always something else  _ clears momentarily to give Jackson a full, panoramic view of the wounded look in Mark’s eyes, an aching combination of betrayal and longing and heartbreak that only magnifies the earthquake of negative emotions already ripping through Jackson’s chest. For a second, neither of them says anything, the blood roaring in Jackson’s ears drowning out the otherwise painful silence.

After what seems like an eternity of stifling, confining silence, the clock ticking ominously above his head, Jackson finally musters up the courage to mumble, voice hoarse and barely audible: “Can we just forget this ever happened?”

And if Jackson didn’t know that was the wrong thing to say already, the look on Mark’s face confirms it. 

“You just want to-” he laughs, but it’s an even uglier one than before, full of unshed tears and untold fears, “-forget that ever happened? Do you even know what you’re  _ asking _ ?”

“I know it’s unfair,” Jackson’s stumbling over his words now, tongue tripping over the syllables in a haste to salvage what’s left of their friendship, “I know it’s unfair to not talk to you for a week without explanation and then do  _ this _ , and believe me I want to punch me just as much as you do, but please,” he begs, “please just give me some time to figure this out. I don’t know- I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

There’s a pause, and then Mark speaks up.

“Hey.” His voice is heartbreakingly soft, much too forgiving for someone like Jackson, whose entire childhood consists of a constant, continuous string of mistakes. “It’s okay.”

“I just-” Jackson hiccups, then, and notes with a dull sense of embarrassment that he’s crying, tears carving burning paths down his face. “I’m just really scared right now. Can we please just- go back to the way we were before?” He lifts his face, then, Mark’s expression swimming in his tear-filled vision, breath hitching on a sob. “Please?”

Mark sighs and climbs to his feet, pulling the back of his hand across his mouth before offering it to help him up. Jackson takes it, but as he climbs to his feet he notices too late that his knees are too weak to support his weight and he stumbles forward, face-planting into Mark’s shoulder.

And all of a sudden, he can’t move.

Because Mark smells like the sky after it rains, quiet sunrise-lit mornings and smiles hidden in cups of coffee. Jackson barely notices the starchy, stiff fabric of the uniform shirt or the boniness of Mark’s shoulder or the way Mark tenses imperceptibly under his cheek because Mark smells like what home should  _ feel  _ like, warm and achingly familiar.

But what’s bad is that Mark is clearly uncomfortable. Despite his flooded senses, Jackson can at least attest to that. And he doesn’t want to make Mark uncomfortable, or  _ see  _ Mark uncomfortable for that matter, ever again.

What’s worse, though, is that as the seconds drag by Jackson realizes that it’s not because he can’t move. It’s because he doesn’t  _ want  _ to move. He could drown in Mark’s scent and warmth and skin and wouldn’t complain, and if there’s anything Jackson’s good at it’s complaining. 

What’s the worst of all is that Jackson has absolutely  _ no right  _ to be thinking any of this, to want to stay in Mark’s arms forever.

Mark sighs again, then, longer and sadder and with a small hitch at the end, and says, “The way we were before, then?”

“The way we were before,” Jackson repeats, and as he steps out of Mark’s warmth and into the cold of the air-conditioned hallway he’s stricken with the terrifying realization that they can never go back to the way they were before.

\--

Jackson is thoroughly distracted all throughout the practice session.

Although he insists he’s practiced just as much as everyone else has (and he  _ has _ , honest), there must be something wrong in his movements because ten minutes into rehearsals and Jaebum tells him to take a break, eyebrows furrowed despite the light tone in his voice.

Jackson sighs and sits down hard against the wall, running a hand through his sweaty hair. After their walk home together Jaebum has almost imperceptibly grown warmer to Jackson; like the chill of normal ice after the burn of dry ice, still cold but tolerable. Jackson notes with dull guilt that Jaebum probably thinks they made up, when in fact it’s the exact opposite.

He wonders, briefly, how Jaebum would react if Jackson tells him he broke Mark’s heart for his own selfish needs, how he changed everything with one stupid mistake.

Jinyoung calls Jackson’s name and, resignedly, Jackson climbs to his feet and returns to the middle of the dance floor, missing the way Mark’s eyes follow his movements.

\--

“What did you do now?”

Jackson looks up from as he’s firing a text off to Namjoon, something along the lines of  _ fuck my life _ with multiple angry emojis tacked onto the end, to find Bambam looking uncharacteristically concerned as he hovers over him, blue hair sticking up comically.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Jackson responds dryly, tucking his phone into his back pocket, but Bambam just scoffs and bumps Jackson’s shoulder with his.

“Mark looks like a kicked puppy and you look like you accidentally baked a cat in your oven,” he deadpans, shaking his hair dry and sending droplets flying like high-velocity projectiles. “So clearly you fucked shit up. Seriously,” his teasing expression suddenly drops, “what happened? He looks heartbroken. Even his smiles make me want to cry.”

Jackson pauses, a confession hovering on the tip of his tongue. He’s on the verge of telling Bambam when Mark suddenly catches his eye out of the corner of the room, staring at their exchange with the kind of look people get when they laugh even though all they really want to do is cry, and he changes his mind.

“I would explain, but I don’t know what happened myself,” he answers truthfully, and instead of a hurt or even crestfallen expression like Jackson had expected Bambam just sighs.

“Just don’t do what you did in elementary school,” is all Bambam says, and in the corner of Jackson’s eye Mark turns away.

\--

Jackson is half-waving to Youngjae on the bus, half-turning to walk back home when a quiet voice calls his name, simultaneously pouring liquid nitrogen and white-hot lava down his spin.

Mark is standing there when Jackson turns back, and in the deserted courtyard in his tattered tank top and lonely eyes he looks nothing but hollow. “Can I walk you home?”

“Um,” Jackson shuffles his feet, shivering even though the smell in the air is approaching summer, “sure. Sorry I didn't wait for you, I thought- I thought-”

_ I thought you wanted nothing to do with me. _

“That I wouldn’t want to be around you anymore?” Mark reads his thoughts as easily as if they’re a children’s book, and Jackson wonders if all those nights playing poker with his dad and their family friends had gone to waste. “I promised we would go back to normal, right?”

“Um-” Jackson suddenly finds it very hard to speak, all forms of eloquence leaving him. “Yeah…”

“Then back to normal it is,” Mark concludes, voice chillingly indifferent as he starts walking in long strides, leaving Jackson behind in stunned silence. The warmth he used to address Jackson with, the amused endearment, begins fading into sepia like nostalgic childhood memories, a cold edge finding its way underneath Mark’s soft voice and transforming him into a completely different person. 

After all he’d done, Jackson supposes he deserves it; but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less.

As they take the otherwise familiar trek home, the wide berth between them seems to yawn open like that dark abyss of non-platonic feelings Jackson had caught a glimpse of when they’d kissed, each crack in the sidewalk yet another gap he can’t cross, a bridge he can’t build. 

Jackson plugs his earbuds in and turns the volume up as high as he can take it, and when he closes his eyes he can almost convince himself they’re back to two months ago, without the ghost of Mark’s lips against his and the coldness of Mark’s voice crystallizing in the space between them, and the lost memory of Mark’s smile echoes in the blackness of his eyelids.

\--

Mark drops Jackson off at his house without a word, but just as he turns to leave Jackson finds himself calling out his name, hearing the desperation in his own voice. Mark stops and doesn’t turn around, but that’s enough. For Jackson, the fact that he’s even here at all is enough.

“Thank you for coming back,” Jackson mumbles. When Mark stays silent, he continues hastily, heart thudding in his chest. “And- um- I don’t have a favorite color anymore,” he blurts out, and even with his back to him he can see the tilt of Mark’s eyebrow.

He thinks of Mark’s untucked uniform shirt, the way his fingers look tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and says, “Because they all remind me of you.”

\--

Jackson thinks he’s coping fairly well with what can probably be called a ‘breakup’ of sorts until Youngjae calls him one night and tells him to get ready in five minutes, because he’s bringing Bambam along to raid his closet for, and he actually says this, ‘the most man-slut clothes we can find.’

He thinks back to the shy Youngjae he’d met not a month ago, compares it to the cynical, inconveniently (for him, that is) candid fake maknae he knows now, and feels a faint sense of longing.

“Jesus,” Youngjae swears when Jackson opens his door wearing nothing but stained sweatpants and an even more stained wifebeater. “You look like the bottom of a KFC container. Come on,” he says, taking Jackson’s wrist with a grip that betrays the innocent look in his eyes, “we’re going out.”

\--

Moments later, Jackson is being herded into a car he doesn’t recognize wearing the tightest pair of pants he owns, black jeans with holes ripped dangerously up his thigh, paired with a plain grey T-shirt and a blue blazer stolen-with-the-intent-of-returning from his dad’s closet.

“If this is a kidnapping I will-” Jackson starts, both irritated and panicked, but effectively shuts up when he hears a squeaky laugh from the passenger seat and catches the glimmer of familiar eyes in the overhead mirror.

“Relax,” Mark says, all the coldness from before transforming into an even more alien and even more terrifying stranger with a rough voice and rougher moves, confidence brimming in his sleazy grin. The only thing Jackson recognizes in this party animal, inspecting his reflection in the side mirror like he does this often, is the laugh, but even that’s an ugly mutation of the original.

“We’re going to a bar,” Jaebum announces from the driver’s seat, and Jackson swallows the lump in his throat.

\--

“So, how do you even know him?” Jackson inquires, glass loose in his hand. Despite all three of them being juniors and just under the age limit, the doorman hadn’t even checked their IDs, just exchanged a bro-hug with Jaebum that spoke of years of shared history and let them in without a second word. “You didn’t exactly have the opportunity.”

Jaebum laughs, already looking on the verge of making some bad decisions, as he flirts carelessly with a girl on the other side of the bar. “He’s a family friend,” he explains, poised to stand up and walk over there. “My family helped his when they were in debt a few years back. Listen, sorry to ditch you but I gotta go,” he says, throwing a wink as he begins to turn away. “Those legs are calling.”

“Good luck with that, perv,” Jackson calls after him, and Jaebum’s laugh echoes as he walks off, leaving Jackson alone with a near-empty glass of some fancy-ass cocktail he’d managed to cough down. The mass of sweaty, gyrating bodies dappled with neon lights on the dance floor beckon, and Jackson has set his glass down and taken a step towards it when a couple crashes into the bar beside him, knocking over several glasses.

The bartender curses, and Jackson snaps out of his weird gay-makeout-session trance to help clean up the spilt alcohol and salvage the glasses before they’re crushed by aforementioned makeout session.

“Thanks,” the bartender sighs, a cute girl with pouty lips and bright purple hair tucked underneath a tastefully angled fedora. “Jeez, these guys need to calm it. Like, keep the groping  _ away  _ from the drinks, will you? No one needs to see where your hands are going.”

Jackson laughs, but the sound is cut off prematurely when one of the guys breaks away for a millisecond to glare at the girl. It all comes crashing down on him, the details he’d missed before - the thin, strong-knuckled fingers, the high-pitched giggle, the fair complexion contrasting starkly with jet-black hair.

“M-Mark?” his voice comes out pre-pubescent high, more of a squeak than anything as he stares at the gay erotica playing out right before him. As he watches the desperation with which Mark’s thumbs hook onto the other guy’s belt loops, holding on like he needs it to survive as his mashes his mouth ingloriously against his partner’s, he has a crushing sense of watching a treasured memory fade away, like watching an angel fall from heaven.

And as he watches Mark, an angel,  _ his  _ angel, crash to the ground in a blaze of exchanged saliva and filthy sounds, his thought processes freeze.

“Hey,” he snaps, the anger in his own voice terrifying him as he grabs the other guy’s shoulder roughly and yanks him away from Mark, drawing himself up to his full height and staring the stranger dead-on. Luckily, the combined effort of insoles and lack of physical latitude on the other guy’s behalf makes him just a bit taller, a bit more intimidating. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The guy eyes him with a gaze glazed over by alcohol consumption but no less demeaning, making it clear to Jackson that he sees him as nothing but a child seeking affection, a distraction craving love. “I think you should be asking yourself that,” he all but spits, and Jackson finds himself turning to Mark, begging with his eyes for assistance.

What he sees next hits him worse than a punch to the gut.

Gone is the warmth in Mark’s eyes, the sunlit mornings and coffee smiles; the dark of his irises, once a cavernous ocean Jackson wouldn’t mind getting lost in, is now hollow, neon lights casting a mirthless glimmer over the condescension with which he looks at Jackson.

Jackson suddenly realizes, with a feeling akin to being run over by an eighteen-wheeler, that Mark is no longer the boy who knows every single song on his iPod, with smiles made of spider-silk and whose favorite color is red solely because it reminds him of Jackson; Mark is no longer the boy who walks Jackson home every weekday, whose fingers are as nurturing as a mother’s affection.

This, this ugly mutation of Mark who inconveniences someone else without apologizing and can carve a world of hurt into someone’s heart just with a single scathing look, cares nothing for Jackson.

The next few minutes are a blur of tears and lights, and when Jackson finally stumbles out into the cold night air, feeling for all the world completely and utterly alone, he realizes he knows where he is. He recognizes this neighborhood.

Heart frozen in trepidation, he looks down the street, eyes searching, struggling to make out the familiar stone and iron gate amidst the red-and-white of car lights. He knows it’ll be there, wishing against fate anyways.

_ Ash Grove National Cemetery. _


	6. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson has always liked the small townhouse he shares with his dad. It’s just big enough to not feel cluttered and just small enough to not be a pain to clean, and there are endless stashes of nerd memorabilia in random corners from his dad’s geek days. Plus the space is entirely customized for him, since his dad’s never home, with a makeshift mini-dojo and a hidden drawer for backup junk food that Jackson raids systematically every week.  
>  But there’s one problem: there’s no guest bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FLUFF HAS RETURNED
> 
> Yep. That's all I have to say.

“Hey, mom,” Jackson says quietly, pressing his cheek against the cool, untouched stone of the grave marker. The words are familiar against his skin - Zhou Ping, beloved mother, daughter, wife and friend. The formality is as stifling as the atmosphere of the club he’d just escaped, and even though he’s never known his mother his father has always stressed that a woman like her deserves more than a plain grey tombstone with wilted flowers.

It’s slowly seeping into summer, but the night air is frigid nonetheless, the wind finding its way under Jackson’s light blazer and making him shiver. In the cemetery, light glinting off tombstones amidst the otherwise inky blackness, the sounds of the city seem to fade into the background, leaving Jackson with nothing but a stark reminder of what he could’ve had.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he admits, tucking his knees against his chest. “It’s like discovering something you didn’t know you needed and then losing it again, you know? And what’s even worse is that at this point, I don’t even  _ know  _ what I need.

“I miss you, mom,” he says, thinking of the gold-framed picture collecting dust on the mantel, that Jackson’s dad always makes sure to look at for an extra long time before heading off to work, of a young woman with sunshine for smiles and happiness woven into her hair. “Maybe you would know what to do. Maybe you would tell me what I really need.”

“You’re going to catch a cold, you know.”

Jackson sits up straight at the familiar voice, turning around so his body shields his mother’s tombstone protectively, as if it were actually her and not a bleak slab of rock with some words carved into it.

“That’s actually a myth,” he says defensively, avoiding eye contact and choosing instead to pick at the grass underneath his feet. “Flus and viruses are only associated with the cold because-”

“I think you’re missing the point here.” Mark’s voice is still indifferent but at least it’s no longer cold, the ice thawing from the syllables. “Do you want my sweater?”

“Don’t you have other places to be?” Jackson can’t help but snap sharply, something akin to guilt-infested anger rising in his throat. “Like with that guy you were practically pantsing?”

Mark stays silent and slides his coat off, draping it over Jackson’s shoulders as he sits down hard on the grass next to him. A car passes by, then, painting thick shadows across the planes of Mark’s face, illuminating a look Jackson would have to spend years to figure out in his eyes.

“Your mom?” Mark says quietly, and it takes Jackson a painfully long moment to realize he’s talking about the gravestone he’s leaning against.

“Yeah.” Jackson is surprised to find that all the anger and bitterness and guilt from before has ebbed away, revealing a softer edge in his voice. “She died while giving birth to me. My dad always said she was the most amazing woman, though,” he laughs, then, although there’s a strange thickness in his throat that makes him feel like he should be crying instead. “Like the kind of person you would have a one-night stand with and then want to take home to your parents.”

“Your dad sounds pretty cool,” Mark notes, and Jackson laughs.

“Yeah. As far as dads go, I got the better end of the deal, I guess,” he admits. “He’s more of an older brother than a dad to me. Kind of immature, but a great guy. It’s just-” he hesitates, staring at the relative mundaneness of his nails. He’s never told this to anyone, has hardly ever thought about it, because why dwell on the past when the present is so great?

Strangely, though, it feels almost natural as he blurts out, “They were really young when my mom got pregnant. After she died during labor, my dad, he… he didn’t know what to do,” he explains, wanting to defend his dad because he was seventeen when all this happened, and Jackson’s sixteen now and can’t imagine ever having to deal with something like that. “He was young and scared and the closest thing he could inflict all of that on was me.

“I heard things no kid should have to hear, especially about themselves, from their own parent. I wish I could forget what he said, but it’s been with me for more than a decade now, and now I use it as motivation whenever I’m working out or under pressure or something, but back then in elementary school I channelled it into this hate. For everyone and everything. I hated the world to cover up the hate I had for myself. I was the most alone person you could ever find.”

“Jia-er…” Mark starts, taking his hand. Jackson’s heart skips a beat but it’s muffled and staticky, vaguely alien-sounding like the audio of old movies.

“Trust me, I  _ know  _ there’s no recovering what I took away and no point in explaining what I did because that doesn’t make it any less horrible, but you deserve to know, at least. I’m sorry, Mark, I really am, for everything I did and everything I’ve done this past week, so if you don’t want to ever be around me ever again I understand, I really do-”

“ _ Jia-er _ ,” Mark repeats, and Jackson’s words sputter to a halt, whatever had been fuelling him this far disappearing at the familiar sound of  _ warmth  _ in Mark’s voice. It’s exactly like how it had been months ago, when walking home together became a necessity, when Jackson blasted Silence out of his earbuds and Mark treated his wounds with smiles and cookies. 

When their eyes meet, Mark’s eyes are soft, and Jackson feels himself drowning again.

But this time, instead of pitch-black darkness, he can still see the light.

“You laughed,” Mark says, and Jackson blinks. He’d been so engrossed in his behemoth of a soliloquy that he can’t even remember when it happened, but to Mark it looks like it means the entire world. “Do you know how much I  _ missed _ -”

Jackson doesn’t hear the rest of his sentence because his senses are suddenly overwhelmed by a familiar warmth crashing back to him like tidal waves of nostalgia as Mark falls forward, head landing on Jackson’s shoulders and arms reaching to wrap loosely around his waist. He’s warm against Jackson’s side, and through the sheen of dried sweat and alcohol Jackson can smell the real Mark again, the Mark with silver hair and spider silk smiles, the Mark who walks him home every afternoon.

“I missed you,” Mark mumbles into the junction of Jackson’s neck and shoulder, warm breath spreading from his skin all the way to his bones and suddenly Jackson can’t feel the cold anymore. “That’s why I kissed that guy, that’s why I dyed my hair black. Because I stopped dreading what life would be like without you and then suddenly the nightmare came true.”

Heart in his throat, Jackson looks down at Mark and very abruptly realizes something he wishes he’d never noticed but is nonetheless infinitely relieved.

Mark’s drunk.

“Mark,” Jackson says, laughing quietly, “are you sure that isn’t the alcohol talking?”

“I’m  _ telling  _ you,” Mark rebukes, and it suddenly becomes obvious just how much he’s had to drink, what with the way his mouth hangs open and his eyebrows are scrunched together in petulance. “I missed you! Really!”

“I missed you too,” Jackson says, making a split-second decision to just leave Mark be. Jackson has zero experience with a hungover Mark, so he’s not sure if he’ll even remember this entire exchange in the morning; with that in mind, he concludes he’ll just roll with it and figure out what to do tomorrow.

What he’s not prepared for, though, is the wide smile that lights up Mark’s face at he beams at him, raising his face from where it had been smushed against Jackson’s shoulder. The lights of passing traffic light up his face, then, in breathtaking, dappled flickers of red and white, and Jackson’s heartbeat freezes in his chest.

Gradually, as if they have a mind of their own, Jackson’s eyes wander down the planes of Mark’s face, tracing with burning detail the slope of his cheekbones, the angle of his nose, his pink, full lips parted in drunken joy. He watches his Adam’s apple bob in the pale arc of his throat, the wingtip-collarbones peeking out of the low collar of his sweater, and can feel his mind spinning, heart ramming into every corner of his body as he tries to wrap his entire entity around the strange feeling pressed into him as if he’s trying to roll a boulder uphill.

In that moment, Jackson panics.

His vision spins into technicolor as the veil he’s so carefully spun around his perspective is ripped away, exposing him to the feelings he’s been trying to deny for the past few months. The guilt of his childhood on top of the guilt of the past week is clearing and Jackson can suddenly see abruptly, intensely clearly everything he’d been too scared to try and understand.

The way he can pick out Mark’s voice faster than even his own father’s. The way his eyes always find Mark, whether it’s in a crowded courtyard or darkened club. The way he can’t help but linger whenever he finds an excuse to touch Mark - the way he even  _ tries  _ to find excuses to touch Mark. The way every single sentence Mark has ever said plays like a broken record in the back of his mind; every single expression Mark has ever made imprinted into the back of his eyelids.

The way he finds himself idly touching his lips, remembering how Mark’s felt against them.

He almost bolts, right then and there - in fact, his hands go so far as to move up to push Mark away. But then he pauses, hands an inch away from Mark’s shoulders.

Mark seems so  _ happy _ .

All determination and the panic that fuels it seeps out of Jackson’s skin and he collapses, deflates against Mark’s lean frame. His hands drop to his sides and he wonders how on Earth he could be so selfish, why he would even consider taking away Mark’s happiness after years of causing nothing but pain. 

So, despite feeling like he can’t quite catch his breath, despite knowing yet not wanting to admit  _ exactly  _ what he’s feeling towards Mark in this moment, Jackson stays.

\--

The next day, it rains.

And not just a drizzle, either - it rains so hard people crowd at the window of the classrooms, teachers included, to gawk at the downpour; it rains so hard that Jackson, seated right in front of the roar of the rain, is concerned for Mark’s health and safety, knowing he’ll be waiting for Jackson in the courtyard like always.

Despite his worry, Jackson can’t help but smile.

Last night, he’d fallen asleep with Mark curled around his side like a giant lanky koala; it had been Jinyoung who’d found them, having caught a brief glance of their silhouettes in the cemetery when a car had passed by. Together, they’d hauled an unconscious Mark into the back of Jaebum’s car, where he’d once again slumped against Jackson’s side and continued dozing, the soft smile on his face warming up the chill in Jackson’s bones from being outside for so long.

They’d spent the ride to Jackson’s house, the closest one to the club and the first stop, in complete silence, Jackson catching the glances exchanged between Jaebum and Jinyoung in the rearview mirror. Against him, Mark had been completely knocked out; even the sharp right turn on Jackson’s street and the string of curse words Jaebum lets out doesn’t mar his soft snoring.

It’s only when Jackson had been halfway out the car, a ‘thank you’ directed at Jaebum for the ride perched on the tip of his tongue, that Mark stirs, blinking blearily as if wondering why he’s leaning against the window instead of Jackson’s shoulder.

“Wait for me tomorrow,” he’d mumbled, running the back of his hand across his eyes. “I’ll come pick you up.”

\--

“Jackson!”

Straining to look above the crowd of students rushing to get out of the rain, Jackson catches the hand waving in his direction and hurries over. Sure enough, at the corner he’s always been waiting is Mark, hair dripping and school uniform nearly black with rainwater. Jackson wonders if this is a metaphor for the past few months, Mark waiting for him despite terrible circumstances; but he brushes that aside and focuses on other things, including but not limited to ignoring the rapid beating of his heart.

“You  _ idiot _ ,” Jackson seethes in worry, marching over to where Mark’s standing and grabbing his soaked wrist. “Why didn’t you bring an  _ umbrella _ ?”

Mark waves his hand airily, but Jackson doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through his shoulders. “I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s not like you brought one either.”

Jackson ignores the latter part of that statement in favor of tugging Mark’s wrist in the opposite direction of the path they usually take. “Come on,” he says, cutting off the string of questions tumbling out of Mark’s mouth from behind him. “We’re taking the bus home and getting you dry because I will not be responsible if you catch a cold.”

Mark laughs as they finally reach the safety of the bus shelter, right before the bus pulls up to the curb with a screech and a mechanized voice announcing the destination as the doors hiss open. “Who’s going to worry about you, then?” he teases as Jackson practically drags Mark on, fishing some coins out of his pocket and dropping it into the box. 

The bus is jam-packed with businesspeople and students alike; but, used to big-city rush hours, Jackson doesn’t even blink as he sandwiches himself between two equally drenched students, exchanging a glance of empathy with both of them.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, as Mark grabs the railing behind him, “I’ll be fine.”

They say nothing for the rest of the bus ride, but Mark stands just a little closer than normal.

\--

“Do you remember what happened yesterday?” Mark asks when they’ve both dried off and are sitting on the couch watching a random Marvel movie, looking skinnier than usual in Jackson’s baggy clothes. 

Jackson tears his gaze away from the movie to meet Mark’s wide and fearful eyes, clutching at the hem of his sweater like it’s a lifeline and he’s about to drown. “Yeah,” he says simply, watching as panic floods Mark’s eyes for a split second before he musters his poker face again.

“Oh,” is all he says.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I don’t remember anything,” Mark says a little too curtly, turning back to the movie with just a hint of desperation and for some reason, Jackson doesn’t believe he’s telling the entire truth.

\--

Jackson has always liked the small townhouse he shares with his dad. It’s just big enough to not feel cluttered and just small enough to not be a pain to clean, and there are endless stashes of nerd memorabilia in random corners from his dad’s geek days. Plus the space is entirely customized for him, since his dad’s never home, with a makeshift mini-dojo and a hidden drawer for backup junk food that Jackson raids systematically every week.

But there’s one problem: there’s no guest bedroom.

Jackson is very abruptly slapped in the face by this fact when their Marvel marathon has carried further into the night than he’d expected, the inky black of the evening and the continual downpour forcing Mark to stay over at Jackson’s house for the night.

“You can sleep in my bed,” Jackson says, glancing at the mountain of junk cluttered atop what used to be his dad’s bedroom. It’s right down there. I’ll take the couch.”

Mark nods, leaning limply against his side like a giant, unusually pretty ragdoll. Sleepiness hits him hard, a fact Jackson shouldn’t be so elated to know - with his slurred speech and half-lidded eyes, he might well be drunk.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, detaching himself from Jackson’s grip for a moment to pull his sweater off. His shirt rides up a little with the motion, revealing a smooth, flat stomach hinting at a six-pack, and Jackson, having not been warned beforehand, catches the entire thing.

“Jeez,” he mumbles, blushing furiously and turning away, “you could have told me you were putting on a strip show.”

Mark laughs, the sound heavy and dripping like syrup, and butterflies emerge from their cocoons in Jackson’s stomach. “Sorry,” he says before flopping onto the bed, pulling the blankets around him as the springs squeak in annoyance.

“Right.” Jackson swallows, suddenly unable to look Mark in the eye. “I’ll just, uh, sleep on the couch-”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Mark tugs on the sleeve of his shirt, then, so he’s frozen in place. “Stay,” he says, voice suddenly pleading, and Jackson stares at him, beautiful Mark with a heart of gold and hands as gentle as morning kisses, wondering how on earth he’ll ever deserve someone like him.

Because he doesn’t. There’s no way Mark, ethereal Mark who can get pretty much anyone in the entire known universe, would ever like him, a rough, obnoxious guy who makes up for his average looks with fake self-confidence. Mark’s a diamond and Jackson’s just plain old coal, and diamond outshines coal every time.

It’s a path doomed to failure, really, Jackson’s slowly but alarmingly blossoming feelings for Mark. A road destined to lead to a dead-end. A crush that will never be anything but one-sided.

But Jackson looks at Mark, drowning in the sheets, eyes hopeful and hand on his wrist, and decides that he’ll let it be, let his feelings simmer and then die down, nothing but an insignificant high school crush. Because when Mark’s looking at him like this, he already knows there’s no way he’ll be able to say no.

And so, just like the last night, Jackson decides to stay.


	7. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not a word,” he threatens, face reddening alarmingly. Of course, knowing Bambam, he’s willing to bet that by the end of the practice session the others, excluding Mark (unless Bambam’s so obvious he picks up on it, which really isn’t all that improbable), will be in on it.  
>  “Sure,” Bambam says, grinning, and clambers to his feet. Jackson can’t meet Mark’s eyes for the rest of the practice.

Jackson wakes up to an empty bed, an aching heart and a missing warmth next to him.

He pushes down the rush of disappointment that threatens to flood him and slips out of bed, padding across the room to peek out the hallway. The door to his bedroom is slightly ajar; Jackson always keeps it closed, so it’s clear Mark left before he even had a chance to say goodbye.

Jackson kind of hates it, actually, the shroud of mystery that surrounds Mark - how he’s stayed over at Jackson’s house but Jackson has only been to his house once, how he probably has memorized the layout of his school by now when all Jackson knows about his school is the uniform. It’s unfair, Jackson knows, to think like this; maybe Mark didn’t do it on purpose. Maybe it’s as much Jackson’s fault as it is Mark’s.

And so, after a glance at his desk calendar reminds him it’s Wednesday and there’s dance practice after school, Jackson resolves the balance the scales again.

\--

In his defense, Jackson thought he was actually doing pretty well.

He’s got the entire routine down pat, so well that Jinyoung applauds him and Jaebum nods in gruff approval, a small smile softening the gesture. Plus he’s limited his second-nature glances at Mark to once every five minutes, and judging by the lack of lecherous eyebrow-wiggling on  _ anyone’s _ behalf, really, Jackson thinks he’s doing quite well.

That is, until Bambam crashes in like a wrecking ball and shatters all his hopes and dreams.

“What’s up with you?”

Jackson jumps five feet in the air and hits his head hard against the wall, cursing when the impact sends pain flaring from the back of his skull. “Jesus, don’t scare me like that.”

Bambam just rolls his eyes (seriously, kids have  _ no respect  _ these days) and plops down next to Jackson, taking a drink from what is thankfully his own water bottle and not one that he stole from Jackson. “Seriously. You’ve been mooning at Mark this entire time. You’re lucky you rehearsed so much, or Jaebum would’ve murdered your ass.”

Jackson chokes on his own spit, and Bambam - the little shit - looks completely unconcerned as he proceeds to hack his lungs out, slapping his chest with an open palm. “I was not,” he protests, gasping for air and waving off the worried glance Youngjae shoots his way, “ _ mooning. _ ”

Bambam just grins, then, and pokes Jackson’s side. “You know I’m going to figure it out sooner or later, so might as well just tell me now. You like Mark, don’t you?”

Jackson manages to  _ not  _ choke this time, thankfully, instead shooting a glare and a middle finger at a giggling Bambam. “Not a word,” he threatens, face reddening alarmingly. Of course, knowing Bambam, he’s willing to bet that by the end of the practice session the others, excluding Mark (unless Bambam’s so obvious he picks up on it, which really isn’t all that improbable), will be in on it.

“Sure,” Bambam says, grinning, and clambers to his feet. Jackson can’t meet Mark’s eyes for the rest of the practice.

\--

“Let’s go to your house,” Jackson declares before Mark has the chance to say anything. It’s a warm summer afternoon, the sun slowly inching into the horizon and casting dulcet shades of orange and pink across their faces. “I’ve only been there once.”

Mark opens his mouth, and for a second he looks like he wants to protest, but then something shifts in the light of his eyes and he sighs in defeat, shoulders slumping. “Fine,” he mutters, and Jackson cheers.

“Have you always lived there?” Jackson asks as they begin to trudge to Mark’s house, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I never see you around, but you seem to live pretty close.”

Mark gives a smile that reminds Jackson of broken glass. “I moved in the summer before high school,” he explains. “It’s- well- it’s a long story.” 

The way he says it, like he’s  _ ashamed,  _ makes usually nosy Jackson know not to press the subject; but somehow, something about the look in Mark’s eyes says he’ll find out soon enough.

\--

Mark is talking the most Jackson’s ever heard him, a peaceful, lopsided grin seeping into his usually passive expression. It’s a gentle pitter-patter of words, like a child’s footsteps down a hallway at night, and Jackson kind of wants him to keep talking like this forever, thinks that if the deep warmth of Mark’s voice is the last thing he hears he won’t really mind.

The moment’s short-lived, though, because as soon as they get to the front door of the vaguely familiar bakery something is obviously wrong - Mark’s expression darkens, and his words taper to an abrupt halt.

“Shit,” he mutters under his breath, and Jackson blinks, startled. He honestly shouldn’t be surprised that Mark swears, considering the foul mouths of approximately eighty percent of the adolescent male population, but this is the first time he’s ever heard him. The contrast between the word, sharp-edged and sandpaper-rough with fear and worry, and the gossamer twinkle in Mark’s eyes sinks to the pit of his heart. 

“Stay here,” Mark orders. Jackson doesn’t have the time to question what he’s doing before Mark is flinging open the door, nearly inverting Jackson’s nose with the edge of it, and dashing into the bakery.

Left there to sit in his own confusion, Jackson peers inside the darkened bakery and barely makes out, through the glare of the light behind him and the shifting shadows within, shards of what look like porcelain and glass, sitting in brown puddles of what is most certainly cheap-looking alcohol. Trepidation and a certain clairvoyance pool in Jackson’s stomach as he swallows and attempts to look casual, despite the dreadful feeling that he knows exactly what’s going on.

Moments later, voices float over to him through the thin and definitely not soundproof walls of the building, ugly and twisted and angry. Jackson can barely recognize Mark’s voice, cracking with years of pain and exhaustion. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard Mark, and the sound is mutated and terrifying, a knife twisted in his gut.

The staggered, booming sound of heavy footsteps descending the stairs ring in Jackson’s ears, Mark shouting the entire way but now there’s a sort of desperation in his voice that makes Jackson grateful he can’t hear what he’s saying. A figure cloaked in shadows rounds the corner and stumbles to the door, and Jackson’s brain barely processes the impending danger and tells him to step away before they’re bursting out onto the street, the door narrowly missing Jackson’s face for the second time in less than five minutes.

A woman stumbles out, then, hair and suit rumpled like she went directly from a pristine workplace to the bar, and one look at her bloodshot, empty eyes tells Jackson that his analogy’s probably more correct than he’d like. Even with the creases fanning out from her eyes and the exhaustion dragging her features downwards, she looks undeniably like Mark. Jackson realizes, with a sinking feeling, that this is the woman who picked Mark up from school every day in eighth grade.

Mark’s mom’s mouth twists into a weird half-smile, half-frown hybrid when she sees Jackson, standing awkwardly to the side of the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets. “You,” she slurs, pointing at him, and Jackson knows she recognizes him. 

But instead of hitting him or even yelling at him, Jackson’s surprised to find tears curving down her achingly Mark-like features, and for a second she looks like nothing but a scared girl, holding on with bloody and chipped nails to anything that will cover up her broken heart. 

It hurts him worse than if she’d physically punched him, but before Jackson can do anything she’s speaking again, swaying alarmingly on her feet. “You need to treat Mark right, you hear me? You don’t deserve him.”

Jackson’s heartbeat falters, a woman he’d only known through a past he wants to redo breaking past his heartbreaker smiles and smooth talking and stabbing into the very pit of him, the boy huddled in the corner of his bedroom as his too-young father hurled insults at him, crying far too silently for someone his age.

But, despite feeling like his insecurities are seconds away from swallowing him whole, he musters a shaky smile and nods respectfully. “I know that, ma’am.”

That seems like the right thing to say because she nods, stumbling in her steep heels. Her expression darkens suddenly and she regains her balance, making her seem almost sober. “Don’t make it about the past,” she says, and Jackson feels his barriers peeling away, crumbling like ruins. “You can’t change it. What matters is now.”

Heavy, angry footsteps echo onto the sidewalk and Mark’s mother snaps her eyes to him, wide and fearful like a criminal being pursued by a cop. Grabbing his arm, grip desperate and painful, she puts a hand on his face and steps into his personal space, so close it feels like she’s his mother and not Mark’s.

“Make sure he’s happy,” she whispers, and Jackson’s heart breaks for this woman, this once-beautiful woman who looks like she had everything taken away from her all at once. “My son deserves to be happy.”

Then Mark bursts out of the door, his hair a mess and his eyes dark with anger, and she’s gone, stumbling down the street in a mess of wet mascara and stiletto heels.

“Mom!” he shouts, but there’s none of the warmth that should be accompanying that word to his voice. He starts down the street after her but Jackson suddenly puts his hand on his shoulder, alarmed by how frantically he does so, heart pounding. 

The way Mark freezes mid-step, halting like he has an absolute trust in him makes Jackson’s heart jolt and warmth flood his cheeks. “Don’t,” he says quietly, dropping his hand to find Mark’s. When his palm brushes across protruding knuckles and a balled fist, he wordlessly pries his fingers open to intertwine theirs together, hearing Mark’s sharp intake of breath.

Instead of turning around, though, instead of a soft smile to soothe his frazzled nerves, Mark’s voice is unbearably sharp as he snaps, “You don’t even understand.” The next thing Jackson knows, he’s slipping away, out of his grasp and into the shadows of the closed bakery again.

Jackson stares after him with a heavy heart, wondering if this is how Mark felt when Jackson kicked him out of his house, how he felt when he kissed him and told him to forget about it.

But, unlike what had happened two weeks ago, Jackson does what Mark didn’t. He does it because Mark’s mom is right - Mark is worth it. Jackson isn’t, but he knows without a shadow of doubt that Mark is.

He goes after him, the bell of the bakery tinkling as he’s swallowed by the shadows.

\--

Jackson finds Mark on his knees in the small kitchen of his apartment, staring at the shards of glass gleaming on the floor as if they’re the remnants of his mother; not the drunk heartbroken girl, but the mother who read him to sleep and made him soup when he was sick.

“Don’t touch it,” Jackson says as Mark is reaching to start picking up the pieces. “You’ll cut yourself.”

Mark starts, eyes already filling with guilt when he snaps them over to meet Jackson’s. “Listen, Jia-er, I’m-”

“It’s okay,” Jackson cuts him off, crossing the kitchen floor in two steps and sitting down next to Mark, taking his hand and this time, Mark doesn’t pull away. “You don’t have to apologize.”

Mark sighs, closing his eyes and slumping against Jackson’s side in a way that has gradually become familiar to him. “I forgot you actually  _ do  _ understand,” he mumbles, thumb tracing abstract art into the canvas of Jackson’s palm.

“You know,” Jackson tells him, ignoring the logical part of his heart that warns him that this is a bad position to be in, considering he doesn’t want his feelings for Mark to advance any further than a small, high school crush, a phase really. “People aren’t all that different from each other. We all know what suffering feels like, in our own ways. It’s a part of being human, I guess.”

Mark hums. “A part of being alive in general,” he agrees. Suddenly, as if struck with an epiphany, he sits up, and Jackson already misses the spot where he’d been. “Hey, do you want some ginger tea?”

Jackson can’t help but laugh at the sudden change of topic, the childlike excitement in Mark’s eyes. Mark is a little kid in the best ways, with none of the temper tantrums and all of the wide-eyed glee at the most mundane, subtly wonderful things. “I’ve never tried it,” he admits, and Mark stands up.

“I’ll grab it,” he says, literally  _ vaulting  _ over the island and opening the cupboard the moment he lands, a perfectly executed finish. Jackson refuses to think about how hot he looked, and instead stares at the shards of broken glass on the floor. “A family friend gave it to me a while ago. I forgot it was even here. I don’t really drink tea, but now doesn’t seem like a bad time to start.”

Jackson turns on the radio and sings along to the shitty but inexplicably catchy pop songs that fill the air, choosing to sprawl on the ground despite there being a couch literally two feet away. Mark laughs as he walks over with freshly made ginger tea and sits down next to Jackson, carefully setting the cups down as Jackson sits up.

“Drink it on three?” Mark suggests. “The water’s only lukewarm, so you won’t set yourself on fire or anything.”

“Drink it on three,” Jackson agrees.

They count to three and both take giant swigs of it like it’s alcohol and not Triple Leaf. The tea burns down Jackson’s throat, hotter than he’d anticipated but weirdly satisfying, warming him up in seconds even though he really doesn’t need any more warmth in the summer heat. 

Beside him, Mark coughs, looking as equally surprised by the intensity of the tea as Jackson feels. “Jesus, that  _ burns _ ,” he wheezes, setting his cup down gingerly and pushing it away from him.

Jackson grins, tipping the rest of his cup’s contents down his throat. Mark stares at him in horror.

\--

They spend the rest of the night lying on the floor, talking in quiet voices about everything and nothing and all the stars in between. As his heartbeat slows and his breaths become few and far in between, Jackson wonders if he’ll ever be able to forget Mark’s voice from this night on, and if Mark will remember his too.

Jackson has never fallen in love before - hell, he hasn’t even been  _ infatuated  _ before. Sure, he’s had little puppy-love crushes over the years, but nothing make him feel the way he does when Mark’s by his side, their fingertips touching - like he’s soaring and being crushed, burning and freezing from the inside out all at the same time. It’s exhilarating, like driving over the speed limit on an abandoned road with the windows down, but it’s also  _ terrifying  _ and doomed from the very beginning.

Jackson isn’t a fool. He knows what everyone says about first loves - you give it your all because you don’t know any better, and when you leave you leave a piece of yourself with it. And every other time you fall in love, you can’t help comparing them to whoever you’re seeing now, you can’t help giving less than what you gave them because they have the last piece that completes the puzzle.

They say it’ll crush you, shatter you into a thousand shards of glass on the kitchen floor, and no matter how quickly it burns or how much it hurts you will never, ever be able to forget.

\--

“You know,” Jackson starts, half-asleep as he weaves his fingers through Mark’s inky black hair, soft as silk and warm. They’re sitting on the couch, Mark slumping against Jackson, and he thinks he likes the way they fit together, like puzzle pieces, completely different but still somehow destined to be together. “When we were in eighth grade, I thought you were perfect. I thought you were unbreakable, so I tried to break you.”

Mark doesn’t say anything for a very long time, and Jackson has started wondering if he’s even awake when he asks, “do you still think I’m perfect?”

Jackson thinks of that time he saw Mark cry, the uncomfortable walk home after Jackson had kissed him, and answers, truthfully, “No.”

_ But that doesn’t matter,  _ he thinks to himself as Mark tilts his head to look at him, eyes unreadable. Jackson feels compelled to stare back so he does, and they’re locked in a stalemate of burning gazes as each try to read the other’s thoughts. Well, Mark does, at least - Jackson is just trying not to drown in the incredibly powerful current of Mark’s eyes.

It becomes clear, though, after a while, that Jackson wouldn’t have been able to read Mark’s mind even if he’d tried, because nothing would have prepared him for the proximity at which he suddenly finds Mark, eyes hungry, searching. Despite the voices, the sudden crystal clear clairvoyance with which they are screaming at him that Mark’s going to do what he does next, he refuses to believe them until it comes true.

Mark is the one who closes the space between them, this time, and everything crashes down. 

He doesn’t really get the chance to freak out, though, because all his systems seem to shut down then; the entirety of his being, his sole existence, seems to focus on the feeling of Mark against him, his lips, soft and warm and perfect. His hands reach to curl around Jackson’s waist and  _ fuck,  _ he is not prepared for this.

Jackson is clearly panicking because Mark leans back, eyes wide and reproachful. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t-”

“Do that again,” Jackson blurts out, because although his mind is a mess of tumbling thoughts caught in free-fall, he feels incomplete without Mark’s lips fitted against his, breath warming the space between them. “Kiss me again.”

Mark’s eyes go wide and they’re kissing again, and Jackson once more finds himself staring into the void of non-platonic feelings, a yawning abyss of infinite possibilities. It’s terrifying, but he blinks and Mark’s standing at the other end, eyes warm, smile welcoming. Mark, who has waited for him in the pouring rain, who forgave him for everything he did three years  _ and  _ three months ago.

Mark, who has always been there, spider-silk strong, voice gentle.

Jackson takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and jumps.

That night, Jackson falls in love with Mark against everything both his heart  _ and  _ his mind are telling him. He falls in love with the silver-haired and the dark-haired Mark, drastically different but with all the important things perfectly identical. He falls in love with the Mark from three years before and the Mark in front of him right now, hands on his arms, gentle. He falls in love, and suddenly he’s wondering if he’s loved Mark all along, if he’d just been too stupid to notice before.

They pull away, Mark’s smile quiet, and he thinks that falling in love is a little like drinking ginger tea, warm, throat burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally drank too much ginger tea and got a sore throat  
> This is the inspiration I get as a writer
> 
> Again, thanks to Claire and Echo for beta-ing my work! I'm sorry I haven't gotten the chance to reply to your emails, but please don't think I'm not reading them, because I definitely am!


	8. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Just say the words and we can go back to normal."  
> Except, Jackson doesn’t think he can ever go back to normal. His newfound feelings for Mark are crushing him, knocking the wind out of his lungs and the sense out of his brain. Jackson wonders if love is supposed to be this painful - a knot in his chest, wound tight, about to snap.

If kissing Mark Tuan the first time had been the second-worst decision Jackson had ever made in his entire life, kissing him the _ second  _ time is possibly the best.

Mark is, unsurprisingly, an extremely capable kisser, simultaneously pulling down all of Jackson’s barricades and melting Jackson’s entire entity into a pile of goo with just the way he presses his tongue against Jackson’s, breaks apart only to pant into Jackson’s neck. And with each kiss, each breath, Jackson feels his resolve crumbling, the truth he’d realized just seconds ago becoming more undeniable with each passing moment. And it’s terrifying, really, this feeling of first love, of plunging into inky black waters with only the endless, unforgiving sky above you, nothing to break your fall.

Maybe that’s why Jackson stops Mark from going any further by burying his face in Mark’s shoulder, effectively avoiding both Mark’s gaze and hungry lips. “Stop,” he mumbles weakly, fingers curled loosely in the crinkled fabric of Mark’s dress shirt.  _ Stop before I fall in love with you any more,  _ is what he really wants to say, but at the moment it seems all he’s capable of mustering is the first word.

That’s enough for Mark, though, because his voice holds nothing but guilt (but not remorse or regret, Jackson notices much, much later) as he says, “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. I went too far, didn’t I?”

“No, it’s-” Jackson sighs, unsure how to form his emotions into comprehensible words, to make Mark understand everything with just a few sentences. He knows the rejection is impending, a disaster looming over him like the weight of the entire world on his shoulders, so he might as well just get it over with and start moving on. 

“I crossed a line, didn’t I?” It’s more of a statement than a question, and Mark seems heartbreakingly sure of the answer anyway. “I’m sorry, I just- oh my God, you probably think I’m a freak. I’m- please don’t leave. We can just forget about it, if you want.”

_ We can just forget about it, if you want _ .

The sentence, familiar and unwelcome, cracks Jackson’s final resolve of strength and self-control and he crumbles underneath the crushing weight, the exhaustion of keeping it all in for so long. It’s like he said - rejection is impending, so why stretch it out? “That’s the problem, Mark,” he says, voice cracking with something like frustration, “I  _ can’t  _ fucking forget about it.”

“I-” Jackson’s statement seems to catch Mark off guard, because he stumbles over himself, unsure what to say for the first time since  _ ever _ . “I- you- what?”

“You’re not perfect but you’re  _ amazing  _ and beautiful and honestly,” Jackson grumbles, smashing his face into the cushions to avoid Mark’s probably confused and disgusted look, “you are  _ so hot _ . Like, standing next to you makes me want to go outside and lie face-down on the sidewalk. I don’t think you even understand.”

A very long, very terse, and  _ very  _ excruciating silence ensues, Jackson growing more trepidated, more fearful and more impatient with each passing second. After five minutes pass, he’s gotten to the point where he wants to shake Mark by the shoulders and scream at him to just  _ reject  _ him already. 

“Okay, honestly, you don’t have to butter it up or anything. I know you don’t like me back, it’s fine,” Jackson says slowly, voice sounding much more tired than he’d intended. “Just say the words and we can go back to normal.”

Except, Jackson doesn’t think he can  _ ever  _ go back to normal. His newfound feelings for Mark are crushing him, knocking the wind out of his lungs and the sense out of his brain. Jackson wonders if love is supposed to be this painful - a knot in his chest, wound tight, about to snap. 

“Are you…” Mark says, and when Jackson looks up his eyes are as unreadable as a book in a foreign language, perhaps even more so. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“That I like you?” Jackson spits out, a little bitter because  _ liking  _ isn’t even  _ half  _ of what he feels for Mark. If Jackson’s feelings for Mark could be personified into an iceberg, saying  _ I like you  _ isn’t even the tip of it, it’s the air that surrounds it. It’s a dent on the side of it. It’s the birds that nest on it. “ _ Yeah,  _ you dumbass. I like you.”

_ Love you, even,  _ is what he really wants to say, but as most regrets go, he doesn’t.

“And you think I’ll…  _ reject  _ you?” Mark says the last two words like it’s poison he’s only noticed too late, and Jackson has  _ no idea  _ what to think of this.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Jackson says, incredulous, because now he’s wondering if Mark even heard anything he’d said. He’s starting to regret it all, trying to come up with an excuse to properly cover up everything (maybe the ginger tea had alcohol in it?) when Mark pulls at his hair, distressed.

“Are you…” he repeats, and at this point Jackson actually wants to slap him. Sure, the Mark he knows takes his time with his movements, thinking his actions through before he does them, but he’s never been this…  _ dull  _ before. Jackson is starting to wonder if the ginger tea really  _ had  _ had something funky in it.

But then Mark goes, “Are you  _ insane _ ?” in the most incredulous, relieved voice Jackson has ever heard, and every single thought and worry and insecurity plaguing Jackson’s mind is effectively swept away to make way for an overwhelming sense of confusion.

“I’m not sure what you-” he starts, but Mark cuts him off, eyes so intense Jackson flinches away.

“You actually didn’t know?” The incredulity in his voice is actually becoming quite offensive now, but Jackson can’t seem to find the voice to complain. “Jesus, I-” he flops back against the couch, running a hand through his hair in a way that is both  _ extremely  _ demeaning and  _ extremely  _ sexy. 

“God damnit, Jackson, I  _ like  _ you,” Mark says, laughter breathy and hopeful. “More than I can say. I haven’t been able to ever stop thinking about you these  _ entire three years _ , you know that? Every single day.”

Jackson literally cannot move.

He remains frozen in place as Mark, taking his silence as a sign to continue, goes, “On the first day of eighth grade, I was terrified out of my mind. I went from a quaint little town on the outskirts of the city, where everyone knew each other and no one locked their doors, to this school, with its huge field and towering oak trees, offset by skyscrapers which I’d never even  _ seen  _ prior to moving, so you can’t blame me.

“I was early that day, because my mom had to check things with the school counsellor. I was literally just standing there, staring up at the building, when I heard something I would never, ever be able to forget, even if I wanted to.

“It was someone singing. At first, I thought it was some street performer because there was  _ no way  _ an awkward, acne-riddled middle-school guy could sing like that, all scratchy and raspy and low and amazing. I expected, like, long hair, a ratty fedora and fingers plucking at a guitar, but instead I got something much, much better.”

Mark smiles, then, a smile like rows upon rows of tea lights on the harbor, and Jackson can’t tear his eyes away. “You.”

“ _ You  _ were standing there, under the falling leaves of a willow tree, sitting cross-legged and petting a feral cat. The cat had its eyes closed and was sitting in your lap, and you were singing, and underneath that blue sky, surrounded by swirling leaves, you knocked me out. I literally could not breathe for so long, I started panicking.”

Jackson’s holding his breath, Mark’s eyes sincere, and thinks  _ fuck it,  _ let the current pull him in. He doesn’t mind drowning - he’s already out of air.

“But during class, you changed. You went from the beautiful boy under the autumn leaves to this brash, rude troublemaker, who mocked people loud enough so they could hear and tore at people’s insecurities until they snapped. When you pulled that chair out from under me when class started, I knew it was an accident. I knew that prank wasn’t meant for me. I also knew that my lack of reaction towards that fuelled everything that came after.”

At Jackson’s shocked expression, Mark laughs, quiet and painfully self-deprecating. “Yeah. I noticed that.

“I guess, after everything that happened, that image of you on the first day of school under that willow tree kept me going. I started coming really early to school just so I could hear you sing, and that made up for everything.

“After my mom made me enrol in a school farther away, I tried to push it all away. I tried to let go of the memory of you but I couldn’t, because even though you were long gone I could still hear your voice everywhere I went. I could hear you singing, even though you weren’t there.

“A year ago, though, I was walking through the park and sat down at a playground for a break, watching the kids play and laugh and just be ridiculously happy the way only kids can. There was a lot of people there, and in the midst of that chaos an elderly woman lost her balance and went crashing to the ground.”

Jackson suddenly knows exactly what Mark is talking about.

And, even more suddenly, understands  _ everything _ .

“A lot of people rushed to help her, but I remember the first person who did, a young guy around my age in a snapback, a red plaid shirt, ripped jeans and basketball shoes. He got there first, helping her up with so much care and concern that I think everyone in that crowd was surprised. And then that guy turned, and everything froze.

“You looked so  _ happy _ . Your eyes weren’t hollow anymore, they were peaceful, and shining, and your smile, the real one, was the prettiest thing I had ever seen. I knew, somehow, that you’d finally found a way to get rid of all that hate within you. I also knew I had to get to know you again. For my own selfish reasons, to make up for everything that had happened before, but also because it just felt  _ right.  _ Natural. Like everything I’d ever done had led up to that moment.

“My point is,” Mark concludes, voice small, eyes on the floor, “I think I fell in love with you then, or maybe I was in love with you this entire time. 

“I won’t ever reject you, Jackson,” he promises. “I don’t think I ever could.”

For a single, tense moment, everything is frozen, like the way a tsunami wave pauses right before it crashes over the city, the way the exhale after a single, earth-shaking confession offers just a little room to catch your breath before everything shatters.

And, sure enough, everything shatters.

Jackson stares at the top of Mark’s head, feeling like everything he’s ever done for the past few months have all been a lie. Mark had loved him  _ all this time _ . Even as he was struggling with his own emotions, even as he was convincing himself there was  _ no way  _ things could turn out the way they did, Mark had been there the entire time, being swallowed whole by what he felt. For  _ Jackson. _

But, past the roaring in his ears and pounding in his chest, it strikes Jackson that it all makes  _ sense _ .

Why Mark dyed his hair black and made out with that guy. Why Mark’s favorite color was red simply because it reminded him of Jackson. Why Mark had kissed him back the first time, lips achingly hopeful. Jackson had been foolish enough to think that the entire idea of a romance between them was one-sided,  _ his  _ side, but he’d been too blind to see Mark’s half of the perspective.

Because, in reality, it was Mark. It was  _ always  _ Mark.

Jackson thinks of all the possibilities, spanning out before the ratty couch like stars splashed across the night sky. He imagines the coffee shop dates they’ll have, the kisses under summer leaves and autumn leaves and bare trees and cherry blossoms in full bloom. And, just like every other day of all those three years they were apart (and honestly, Jackson doesn’t know how he  _ survived _ , being without Mark, because now he’s as essential to him as breathing), he thinks back to three years ago.

But, for the first time in  _ ever _ , Jackson doesn’t give a damn.

Because that one year, that one long chain of bad decisions and regrets, seems like a heartbeat, and small flicker in time compared to the promise of a future with Mark. A future where Jackson would spend every day not making up for the past but looking forward to tomorrow, a future that Jackson knows without a doubt is what he wants to do with his life. What he was  _ meant  _ to do with his life.

When Jackson snaps out of his reverie to find Mark staring at him, eyes uncertain and terrified, he smiles, letting his head fall forward until it hits Mark’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Mark asks, quiet, and Jackson’s heart leaps into his throat because  _ oh my god _ , this boy is  _ his _ , this beautiful boy who is far prettier than any human being has any right to be, this beautiful boy with a heart of gold and eyes as deep and warm and diverse as the ocean. This boy, with his flaws and his quirks and his preferences and his pet peeves, is  _ his. _

Nothing has ever been more clear.

“I think I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Jackson confesses, adding on a hasty “If that’s okay” at the end because hey, it’s young love and they’re both terrified kids faced with something far bigger than the two of them, and sometimes extra precautions are necessary.

“Yeah,” Mark says, voice riding on a sigh of relief, “yeah, I’d like that.”

\--

“You’re such a hypocrite,” Jackson mumbles, face buried in Mark’s neck. “Telling me to stay and then leaving me.” Although he really isn’t all that bitter about Mark abandoning him after they spent the night together (it  _ does  _ sound more intimate when he puts it that way, though), the tension between them is thick and giddy and uncomfortable and he needs to find  _ something  _ to break the ice.

Mark laughs. “I’m sorry. I had to go or I would be late for school. And besides, I was scared of what I would do if I stayed,” he confesses softly, and Jackson’s heart wrenches, it really does, but… 

Well, he’s nothing if not an opportunist.

“Speaking of which…” Jackson starts on a long, only half-serious tangent about how Mark seems determined to remain a mystery to him, and honestly at first it was kind of sexy but now it’s just really fucking irritating and Jackson just really wants Mark to stuff him in his backpack and carry him around everywhere so Jackson can get a taste of  _ his  _ life. Mark stays silent the entire time, rubbing circles into Jackson’s back that are making it really, really hard for him to stay awake to finish his rant.

“I’m sorry,” Mark says when Jackson pauses to catch his breath. “But hey, we have all the time in the world for that, now.”

“Are you saying you’ll keep me around?” Jackson teases, voice faltering as his heartbeat trips over itself and falls face-first onto the hypothetical pavement. 

Mark hums, and Jackson squashes down the urge to giggle at the way the vibrations tickle his cheek. “Maybe,” he says, but the word he traces into Jackson’s back is  _ Always _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually just a crapload of domestic fluff really  
> I'm so sorry
> 
> ANYWAYS, this fic is FINALLY drawing to a close (one more chapter left)! Thank you to all the people who've stayed with me the entire time, who've encouraged me to keep going and freaked out over Markson with me. Thank you especially to my editors, Claire and Echo, for being awesome and putting up with my nervous breakdowns. I'll do specific shoutouts in the A/N of the last chapter, but I just want to say a general thank you first because I just can't wait xD
> 
> Also, I may or may not already be planning a YugBam sequel... *evil laughter* *rolling thunder* *lightning strikes*  
> *Gets hit by lightning*


	9. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yeah,” Mark says without hesitation, smiling that beautiful smile, a smile that seems to reflect all their years of history, of regrets and making up for those regrets and finally, finally letting them go. “Yeah, it was worth it, I think.”

“Okay, seriously,” Youngjae complains, voice reverberating through the room. “Can you guys go back to angsting over each other? This is just gross.”

The seven of them are splayed out on the floor of the dance studio, sweat pooling on the polished wood. It’s their last rehearsal before the competition tomorrow, and although at this point everyone can do the dance in their sleep Jaebum still insists on last-minute cramming, picking on all the tiniest details not even the judges will notice. Still, despite the back-to-back practicing, Mark always finds Jackson, brushing their knuckles together and sometimes, if he’s quick enough, pressing a kiss to his jaw.

Honestly, Jackson’s in paradise. He can’t even feel the exhaustion.

Everyone else clearly thinks otherwise, though, because as Mark turns red and hides behind his bangs and Jackson just grins and winks, multiple sounds of agreement towards Youngjae’s statement echo across the room.

“You couldn’t have picked a better time to shoujo-manga your asses off?” Jaebum’s voice is dripping with sarcasm and thinly-veiled amusement, but the twinkle in his eyes is nothing but friendly, far warmer than the daggers he’d glared at Jackson the day they’d met. “Come on guys, you need to focus. We don’t have much time left.” 

With that, he claps his hands, signaling the start of yet another run-through, and everyone groans, dragging themselves upright and padding exhaustedly to their positions, waiting for the music to start.

\--

“You know,” Jackson starts as they’re walking home, mulling over how to phrase his next words. “If you wanted me to sing, you could’ve just asked, you know?” He winces, then, at how shaky and uncertain his voice comes out, like a prepubescent boy asking his lifelong crush to some crappy middle school dance.

Mark doesn’t seem to notice, though, slipping his fingers between Jackson’s and pulling him closer to let a cyclist pass by. Their proximity sends heat flaring up Jackson’s neck and into his cheeks, and he stares at the ground as Mark says, “And would you have if I’d asked you to?”

“No,” Jackson answers truthfully, but doesn’t miss the way Mark inhales sharply in disappointment and adds, hastily, “For you, maybe.”

“Really?” Mark says, his voice teasing, and Jackson notes with dull pleasure that their hands are still intertwined even though the need for it has long passed. “So I’m special?”

Jackson just laughs, even though it’s true. “Don’t get cocky. I said  _ maybe _ .”

But then he finds himself pulling Mark in the opposite direction of his house, down a path he hasn’t taken in a while. The landmarks are blurry, like smudged ink on an old map, but he manages to find his way nonetheless, pulling Mark behind him as he makes his way up to the unassuming brown brick building with the name  _ Jung’s  _ mounted above the door in faded neon. 

“I used to come here all the time,” Jackson explains to a very confused Mark, rapping on the door in the knock all old customers used. He feels kind of guilty for using it, dressed in the borrowed robes of a frequent customer when he hasn’t been there in years.

Sure enough, it opens to the familiar sight of a strong jaw, sharp nose and wide eyes, eyes that crinkle in an achingly infectious smile lighting up the darkened doorway. Jackson grins back, and it’s like nothing’s changed, all the nervousness dissipating to make way for warmth seeping into his veins.

“And here I was, thinking you’d never come back,” Hoseok grins, laughing as Jackson rolls his eyes and swats at his arm. He’s forgotten how  _ perceptive  _ Hoseok can be though, because right after the exchange is done he asks, “Who’s the pretty boy?” 

Jackson  _ would  _ be offended but it’s  _ Hoseok  _ and he would rather kiss a snake (and Hoseok really hates snakes) than offend someone on purpose.

“Hey,” Mark steps forward, offering a hand but Hoseok, as Jackson predicts, turns it into an impromptu bro-hug, effectively startling Mark and knocking down the first layer of his walls. This is evident through the breathy laugh that escapes Mark after they lean away, Hoseok beaming like they’re already the best of friends. “I’m Mark.”

“Hoseok,” he introduces, just as a head of silver hair appears behind his shoulder, all mischievous eyes and pixie-ish smile. “And that’s Ilhoon.”

Ilhoon smiles at Mark, then Jackson, grin widening only in the way grins do when you’ve seen a friend you’ve been meaning to get in touch with, and Jackson feels even worse for neglecting such an essential part of his childhood. “Are you gonna perform for us?” he asks, communicating with a slight tilt of his head that he’ll guilt Jackson into doing it even if he says no.

So Jackson sighs in mock defeat, shoulders slumping, and leads Mark into the bar.

\--

There’s a row of people lined up around the back wall waiting to perform, so Jackson has to sit through all of their performances not really hearing them, voices drowned out by the roaring of blood in his ears and how he has to wipe his sweaty palms on the seat of his jeans every two minutes. Seeking comfort, he finds Mark’s jet-black hair amidst the bustle of frosted tips and rainbow outfits, clothing strikingly plain in a place that is completely  _ un _ plain. Mark seems unperturbed by the looks people are shooting him, though, and gives Jackson a wide, albeit confused smile, that immediately serves to soothe Jackson’s frazzled nerves. 

Most of the staff that were there when Jackson had been a regular are still working at the bar or frequent it often, bursting into wide grins and playful punches when they recognize him. Even Jinwoon, the owner who’s  _ always  _ busy, emerges from the depths of his office to say hi. He’s shocked by how much they’ve all matured - he saw it in Ilhoon, but is really, truly struck by it when he sees everyone else. 

Eunji has grown out of her blushing schoolgirl phase into a graceful, beautiful bombshell of a woman, rendering Jackson speechless with just a smile when a year ago it had been the other way around. Yonghwa is a fucking  _ father  _ now, having been forced to find a better job than just singing and wiping counters to support his wife and one-year-old kid, but dropped by in a suit and tie  _ fresh from a business meeting  _ (Jackson still can’t wrap his head around this) when he hears the news. Daehyun has finally won the struggle he’s had with his parents since he was five and wanted to be a musician instead of a doctor, and the change is evident in his smiles, wider and more genuine than they ever were a year ago.

All in all, it’s so nostalgic Jackson feels kind of nauseous, but when Yonghwa wiggles his eyebrows at the sight of Mark’s and Jackson’s intertwined hands, Eunji punches him  _ hard  _ in the gut, and Daehyun just laughs, Jackson remembers that this is what a family is supposed to feel like, weird as shit and kind of dysfunctional but they all love each other anyway. 

After all the chaos has died down, Ilhoon offers to find Mark a seat while Jackson takes his place in the line of people waiting to perform, waving away Eunji’s offer to let him cut to the front of the line and instead opting to wait. This had all been a spur-of-the-moment decision, anyway, despite being one of the best he’d ever made, and he still has no idea what song to sing. He hasn’t even sung in three years.

So, it’s with zero preparation and the feeling of fifty pairs of eyes burning into the back of his skull, one more than most, that Jackson takes the stage, sitting down on the chair and almost knocking over the mic stand in the process. (Yeah. Great start, Wang.) The music starts, crackling out of the speakers ( _ oh _ , they’ve gotten new ones, which is great because the old ones were  _ shit _ ) behind him, and briefly, Jackson panics.

But then it’s his cue to start, and he can’t exactly rush off the stage  _ now _ , not when Mark is looking at him expectantly and all his old friends are standing in the back with their arms folded over their chests, smiling, so he takes a deep breath.

_ “I don’t want another pretty face, I don’t want just anyone to hold _

_ I don’t want my love to go to waste, I want you and your beautiful soul.” _

In the corner of his eye, he sees Mark inhale sharply and lean forward, eyes unreadable, and his voice falters just the tiniest bit.

“ _ You’re the one I want to chase, you’re the one I want to hold _

_ I won’t let another minute go to waste, I want you and your beautiful soul.” _

The three years he hasn’t used his singing voice is showing, he’s sure, because his voice cracks weirdly at the worst places, he’s pretty sure he’s off-key for the entire first minute and  _ why  _ did he choose a song with a fucking  _ high note  _ there is  _ no way  _ he can hit that shit-

He hits that shit, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Hoseok grinning, flashing a thumbs up, Ilhoon bobbing his head to the beat next to him. Confidence surges in the panic-filled depths of his heart and he stands up, suddenly, taking the mic off the stand so he can jump off the stage and make his way into the crowd, still singing. He’s glad the crowd parts as he walks because he’s not really paying attention to where he’s going, eyes fixated on his destination and his destination only.

The corners of Mark’s mouth are trembling like he’s fighting back a smile or tears or both, his hair all messy and his uniform all rumpled and sitting there, in the rickety old chair just shy of one of the spotlights, Jackson thinks he’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

The cord is too short so he drops the mic carelessly, feedback crackling through the speakers as it hits the floor, and he pulls Mark up to stand right in front of him because the moment  _ demands  _ it, not because he’s been imagining this scene for  _ weeks  _ now.

The mic is lying a few feet away from him, everyone is probably thinking what a weirdo he is, and he’s  _ definitely  _ going to get teased about it for the rest of his life but all that really matters are the tears trembling in Mark’s eyes as Jackson takes his hands and presses their foreheads together, singing the last chorus under his breath for him and only him.

He barely registers the sound of the instrumental fading away, the cheers erupting all around them after a brief, hovering moment of silence, as Mark whispers, “You fucking idiot,” and falls on top of him.

And Jackson laughs. He laughs as Mark wraps his arms around his shoulders and catches Hoseok’s proud smile in the corner of his vision and sees Ilhoon pretending to barf and Eunji rolling her eyes next to him. He laughs as Mark mumbles, “You’re such a cheeseball, that was fucking  _ gross _ , why would you do this to me,” sounding offended and exasperated even as tears seep into the fabric of Jackson’s shirt.

He laughs, a warm, swooping feeling filling his chest, and wonders if he’s ever been so happy.

\--

The walk home from the bar, their intertwined hands swinging between them and Mark’s voice filling the night sky, passes by in a blur, and it’s only when Jackson has shut the door to his house after saying goodbye to Mark that he discovers something in his pocket.

It’s a note, paper folded and refolded until it’s taken on the texture of cloth, a full sheet of scribbles in gray pencil and red ink and black Sharpie, a compilation of thoughts. His eyes dart down to the bottom corner of the page, seeking confirmation even though he’d shoved his hands in his then-empty pockets when walking home from school and Mark’s the only one who could’ve had the chance to pull this kind of stunt. 

_ Sincerely, Mark,  _ it’s signed, letters wobbly like his hand was shaking when he’d written it, and Jackson drops onto the couch, abandoning his backpack on the floor next to him.

_ My mom once told me, before my dad left and I lost her to alcohol, that first love hurts. _

_ She said it was like falling from a plane with no gear on, the wind tearing at your skin and clothes and knocking the breath out of your lungs. She said that when you looked at them, each glance felt like a solid punch to the gut. Like a constant vicious cycle of believing you’re not good enough and then hating yourself for believing so and then believing you’re not good enough because you’re so consumed by self-hate. What she said terrified me, and I swore never to fall in love. Of course, like most wishes when you’re seven years old, that ended pretty quickly. _

_ I realized, later, that that was only one account. That was what my mom felt when she’d fallen in love for the first time. Just because it applied to her doesn’t mean it would apply to me, too. _

_ And, sure enough, it didn’t. _

_ I’ve always been given more attention than I deserve. I was lucky enough to have Jaebum and Jinyoung, of all people (although I think it was mostly Jinyoung), approach me on my first day of high school, immediately boosting my popularity status. Without them, I would still be wearing baggy sweatpants and Air Nikes, not skinny jeans and Vans. Without them, I would still be a wallflower, the kid at the back of the classroom. I’m reminded of this every Valentine’s Day, when I open my locker; I’m reminded at every school dance and function there is, all the clubs I’m in even though I’m not really good at anything. _

_ But that night, when you told me I was beautiful, that I was worth it, something weird happened. _

_ For the first time in my life, I allowed myself to hope. _

_ How could I not? You’re the most genuine person I’ve ever met, Jackson, and you don’t even know that  _ you’re  _ the beautiful one. Remember that time you helped the snail? Remember that time you didn’t let me touch the broken glass because you were afraid I would hurt myself? You put your entire being into helping others, and you don’t even pause to  think about yourself, catch your breath, or ask for anything in return. And I can read the way you look at yourself, talk about yourself (when you do): I’ve felt that way every single day of my life, until you came along. You don’t think you’re worth anything. You don’t know, and it’s so painful, Jackson, knowing when you don’t. _

_ So let me tell you this, Jackson: You are worth it. You are worth everything. I know I don’t deserve to even love you, but give me time. Hopefully, someday, I’ll earn it. I’ll earn you. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Mark. _

\--

Jackson storms up to Mark, heart pounding in his chest and adrenaline coursing through his veins. He’d arrived half an hour early to the venue, abandoned his dad there to talk to one of the ridiculously pretty volunteers, and sprinted to the waiting room, one for each team, so quickly people gave him alarmed looks as he passed.

It’s the day of the competition, set later in the afternoon so students wouldn’t miss classes, but all throughout school Jackson could only think about Mark and that fucking  _ letter _ , the letter that kept him awake until ass-o’clock in the morning, the letter that hypothetically tripped him and made him fall even deeper in love with the beautiful boy he’s now marching up to.

“You  _ idiot _ ,” Jackson growls, voice coming out unnaturally low, and an unreadable emotion flickers through Mark’s eyes before Jackson grabs him by the collar and smashes their lips together in a messy kiss, disregarding the staff and other members of their team bustling around the room.

“What was that for,” Mark gasps, lips pressed against his ear as they both lean away to catch their breath. He’s well aware of the other residents of the room, all probably staring at them with varying levels of disgust and amusement, but honestly doesn’t care because  _ holy shit  _ the feeling of Mark’s warm breath against his skin is  _ illegal. _

“For thinking you’re not worth it,” Jackson says, voice still wonky and caveman-like, fingers rumpling the fabric of Mark’s stage costume. 

Speaking of which.

Jaebum had told him, in the briefing he’d given before the end of yesterday’s rehearsal, that he and Mark were going to have similar outfits (‘Like a true couple,’ Bambam had snickered, and Jackson flipped him off), but refused to tell him  _ anything  _ about what they actually looked like. So for all he knew, Mark could be decked out in a hideous mustard-yellow baggy sweater, bright purple skinny jeans ripped to reveal bright green leggings, and a huge, chunky pink necklace. Oh, and those godawful white sneakers to match.

What he gets, however, when he steps back to do a once-over, is something much, much worse.

Because Mark is in a fucking  _ mesh shirt _ .

Jackson had previously only thought of Mark as  _ handsome, pretty, beautiful  _ and sometimes  _ gorgeous _ , pertaining only to his face and personality and nothing towards the lean, ropy muscle that covered his arms or the sharp, wingtip collarbones that peeked out whenever the collar of his shirt slipped. But now that the fabric of Mark’s shirt (if you can even call it that) resembles the screens his dad installed inside the windows to keep the flies out of the house, all of that and more is bared for him to see, for the whole  _ world  _ to see.

And that’s not it. On top of the  _ see-through shirt _ , a downwards sweep of the eyes reveals pants that are much too tight and a crisp black blazer and the prettiest shoes Jackson’s ever seen and  _ what even is the budget of this competition  _ and now he kind of wants to drag Mark into an empty storage room and kiss him until he’s close to fainting.

And what makes it all  _ even worse  _ is Mark’s grin as he watches Jackson’s expression, looking suspiciously like a smirk as he asks, “What do you think?”

Jackson, unable to meet Mark’s eyes, focuses intently on watching his eyebrows, and  _ wait a second why would he have pink eyebrows when _ -

Slowly, trepidatiously, Jackson’s eyes wander up and he is seriously going to have a heart attack right in the middle of the waiting room. And Mark will be  _ completely at fault. _

“Why the fuck did you  _ dye your hair again, _ you asshole?” Jackson breathes, voice somehow stuck in an unusually low baritone, noticeably deeper than the range he usually has. He barely notices, though, because Mark’s hair is  _ pink _ , more specifically, a grayish pink that would look weird and gay as fuck on anyone else but on Mark, styled in a side part that arcs off his forehead before cascading back down to cover just a portion of his left eyebrow like that, it just looks really fucking illegal. Actually, everything about Mark at this point is really fucking illegal.

“No,” Jackson says loudly, suddenly, weirdly acutely aware of all the pairs of eyes that turn in his direction at his outburst. “You are  _ not allowed  _ to do this to me.”

Mark just grins, the sleazy asshole, like he knows how good he looks and how much he’s ruining Jackson’s life right now, and jerks his chin in the direction of the change room. “Go get changed. I want to see you.”

And so, slightly embarrassed by the hint of an innuendo in Mark’s voice, slightly determined to out- _ ruin his fucking life  _ Mark, and  _ extremely  _ turned on by how much of a  _ self-confident dick  _ Mark is being, Jackson trudges over to the staff lady beckoning him over in the corner, a look of slight amusement on her face.

\--

A good twenty minutes later, staring at himself in the mirror as a sudden surge of panic at the realization that there are  _ ten minutes left  _ before they’re set to go on stage threatens to overthrow the self-confidence that arises from his reflection, Jackson concludes that while he might not necessarily ruin Mark’s life, he comes pretty close.

He’d dyed his hair an almost silver-blonde as a spur-of-the-moment thing on the winter break of his sophomore year, and had received so many compliments upon returning to school that he kept going back to the hair salon every time his natural black started to return. His hair’s in great condition, too - due to the effects of bleaching his hair regularly, he has to deep-condition his hair, resulting in a silky texture that has a lot of people randomly coming up to him during break times just to pet his hair.

Normally, he just lets his fringe fall over his eyebrows, because God knows he’s tortured his hair enough to try  _ styling  _ it daily on top of all the bleach, but at the stylists’ insistence he’s gelled it into a comb-over much like Mark’s a month or two ago, except neater and flatter against his head. Plus he’s wearing literally the  _ exact  _ same thing Mark’s wearing, a mesh shirt and blazer with tight pants and leather shoes, and like this he can tell that all those years fencing and hours at the gym have really paid off.

And, well. All in all, he looks pretty great, to be honest.

But the reassurances he gives himself in the confines of the bathroom aren’t enough to stave off the rush of nervousness and negativity that swallows him as he enters the room, face feeling stiff in the thick layer of makeup it’s under. His eyes take about .5 seconds to locate Mark across the room, sitting cross-legged on the couch. It’s clear he hasn’t noticed Jackson’s presence yet, and the flood of hurt that fills him is suddenly drained to make way for a single, clear idea.

Marching his way across the room, Jackson plops down onto the couch next to Mark, slinging an arm around his shoulders and throwing his legs over onto his lap. Sure enough, Mark’s head snaps up, mouth opening to probably say a word or two of exasperation because only Jackson is close enough to Mark to be able to pull off something like this (a thought that makes him feel all fuzzy inside), but all that comes out is a high-pitched squeak as his mouth falls open and his eyes widen and Jackson is completely and utterly satisfied.

After a moment or two of just closing and opening his mouth dumbly, Mark chokes out, voice oddly strained, “Who’s the asshole now?”

Jackson just laughs, but is promptly distracted by the door opening and his dad ambling in, walking with an enviable combination of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ and ‘I’m royalty, respect me’ that made him seem like an important CEO rather than a low-level office worker/part-time fencing teacher. He catches Jackson and Mark on the couch after a brief scan of the room, and raises his eyebrow in a way that’s less ‘oh my god my son is gay’ and more ‘what the fuck how did you score such a pretty guy’. 

            In summary, it’s all to be expected.

“Who’s this?” he asks Jackson, offering a clearly uncomfortable Mark a genuine and friendly smile to show he wasn’t ignoring him. 

Jackson swallows, hard, around the fear welling up in his throat, catching out of the corner of his eye Mark eyeing him with a curious look. He knows his reply will be a huge turning point in their relationship, whether it’s a step forward or a jolting, abrupt snap back to square one. He knows Mark’s waiting, with a breath he doesn’t know he’s holding, for Jackson’s answer, his opinion of what it is that’s between him and Mark, crackling like electricity on a stormy summer evening.

Strangely, though, despite all the unspoken tension hanging in between the three of them and the way both Mark and his dad are watching him, waiting for his answer and gauging his expression, his reply comes as naturally as breathing when he blurts out, “He’s my boyfriend, dad.”

As Jackson’s dad crows like a jock on a high school football team, clapping him on the back and shaking Mark’s hand, Jackson glances over at Mark, heart in his throat, and when he receives a warm, fond smile in return, he knows he’s said the right thing.

\--

They’re waiting backstage for one of the staff members to cue them in, panic arising in every one of them and displaying itself in drastically different ways - Youngjae is belting out random lines of songs that are older than their parents, probably, Jaebum is pacing the length of the tiny backstage area white-faced, and Jinyoung is stuffing poor Yugyeom with food from his seemingly endless pockets.

Jackson knows he should be nervous - after all, it’s a pretty elite competition, and they’ve been training for months for these meagre four minutes onstage, but Mark’s fingers are intertwined with his, casually sneaking little kisses onto his jaw and cheek and the corner of his mouth if he’s feeling a little daring.

“Are you nervous?” Mark whispers, putting his free hand on Jackson’s shoulder to lean in closer.

“Not with you here,” Jackson answers truthfully, and Mark beams, squeezing his hand.

“Me too,” he responds just as a young girl in a sharp ponytail and a black shirt with STAGE CREW emblazoned on the front emerges around the corner, mouthing  _ you’re up next _ and jerking a thumb behind her. At her cue, a collective inhale-exhale routine begins as everyone begins preparing for the mere four minutes that all those months have led up to, the product of their sweat and tears. 

Mark smiles, albeit a little shakily, and squeezes his hand again. “Come on,” he says, and walks ahead of him, following Jaebum in their predetermined entrance order. Their fingers unravel and Jackson watches as Mark walks away, pink hair haloed in white by the backdrop of lights.

Jackson stares at Mark’s receding back, struck by how much the sight mirrors their relationship over the past few months. From the beginning of spring to now, at the height of summer, Jackson had always been the one chasing after Mark, looking not at his face but at his back, turned to Jackson, always walking away. He had the impression that Mark was a mystery, an enigma, a locked wooden box collecting dust in an attic that he would never, ever be able to unlock.

But he knows better now. He knows that Mark is beautiful and kind and  _ weird,  _ and no matter how hard he tries he’ll never be good enough, but all the fog has dissipated, the wooden box has been dusted off and unlocked and all that’s revealed is a boy, a boy with warm eyes and lean arms and a high-pitched, breathy laugh that sounds like he can’t quite catch his breath. Mark is not a mystery, not an enigma, certainly not a reminder of past mistakes but a  _ human,  _ a human with flaws and quirks and all the room in the world to change. Mark is not someone to chase after. He is not something to unlock, a puzzle to solve, a video game to level-up in.

No, Jackson thinks, as he catches up to Mark and easily slips his hand into his, Mark is a person to love, a heart to earn the right to.

\--

It’s in moments like these, Jackson thinks, that thoughts come in startling clarity, so profoundly honest and sacred that there’s no way you could deny them. They’ve gone up and performed their number, everyone working seamlessly to bring a performance that was, to be honest, what they deserved and more, after months upon months of sweat and tears and twisted ankles. Upon ending, they’d been blessed with the sight of a standing ovation, awe shining in the bright grins of audience members as they stood and clapped, their hands a blur of approval, of praise.

It’d been a last-minute change, their performance - instead of the dance they’d originally intended to do, they’d switched to a theme darker and more mature than all the other numbers they’d seen so far. It’d been abrupt news, as months into their rehearsing Jaebum had announced stone-faced that an opposing team had chosen the same dance as them and had signed up first, thus forcing them to switch or sit out. 

It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, really, only borne after an impromptu mini-concert with the seven of them after they’d rehearsed so much even Jaebum had gotten bored. It turned out that Jinyoung, Jaebum, Youngjae and Yugyeom could sing exceptionally well, even when faced with the challenging moves their choreography presented them with, and Jackson found to his surprise that the small rapping phase he’d gone through in middle school had actually paid off. After it was revealed that both Mark and Bambam were quite skilled at rapping (and Bambam could sing, too), they all agreed to do a mixed performance - singing on top of dancing. It had been a challenge, but judging by their reception, it was definitely worth it.

But none of this comes to mind as Jackson glances over impulsively to the other end of the stage, trying to catch his breath as the judges’ praise for their unique concept and impressive talent and innovation fades in and out of focus. All he cares about is reaching, with his eyes, the other end of the line in which they stand, hoping to catch a glimpse of sweat-drenched now-pink hair.

His breath catches in his throat when he finds Mark standing there, beautiful as always under the pale white-blue spotlight that seems to shine directly on him. The lighting is mildly unflattering on everyone else, bringing out facial contours in painfully awkward ways, but on Mark it just looks stunning, haloing him in an ethereal glow. His mind begins to wander again, returning to the constant loop of  _ you don’t deserve him you don’t deserve him you don’t deserve him. _

Jackson is actually just fucking sick of it.

Because although he knows he doesn’t deserve Mark, he knows he’d be willing to spend the rest of his life earning to right to have him, willing to have his heart crushed physically and metaphorically if it meant that someday, at the end of the road, he’d look at Mark’s smile weathered with age and think,  _ This is the person I earned to the right to love. _

And as they’re rounding the corner to the backstage area to the sound of yet another round of clapping, their nerves soothed by the hurried but genuine ‘Good job’ the staff member whispers to them and the nervousness with which the next team tells them they were really good and a difficult act to follow up, Jackson seems to find Mark impulsively, curling a hand around his elbow. Mark startles, surprised, but smiles when he turns, their noses nearly brushing.

“Was it all worth it?” Jackson finds himself whispering, not sure if he’s talking about the dance competition or the way their hearts found their way to each other, stumbling and back-tracking but eventually finding the right path. “All the pain, all the changing, all the frustration?”

“Yeah,” Mark says without hesitation, smiling that beautiful smile, a smile that seems to reflect all their years of history, of regrets and making up for those regrets and finally,  _ finally  _ letting them go. “Yeah, it was worth it, I think.”

It’s a rather anticlimactic ending after so many months of struggling, but to Jackson there’s no better way to mark the start of a new chapter in his life than  _ Mark,  _ walking hand-in-hand with him towards the waiting area, towards his father’s proud smile. 

And it gets even better, afterwards, because long after Jackson thinks the conversation’s ended Mark finds him in the crowd once again and whispers, eyes shining, “ _ You  _ were worth it, in the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A FEW THANK YOUS TO THE CINNAMON ROLLS WHO DESERVE IT:  
> To Trxshking, soopnoodles, pacw0man, boydaegu, chasingthenight, MinSeulgi, americanpoison, LizzyKim, Snowy_Kitsune, ziyAndi3, hina1236, Forgottenidol, cascade7, jegerikkeminfeil, GoldMotel, jihoonsboy, lisinwonderland for liking this enough to bookmark it;  
> To Lucky17, Samsal, PandaxoxoDragon, jess0120390101, Imdeadinside, and heydaiane for taking the time to comment not on one but two, three, or even almost eVERY SINGLE CHAPTER;  
> To ALL OF YOU who left kudos on this shit piece of work;  
> To my betas, Echo and Claire, for sticking with me this entire time and are sTILL WILLING TO PUT UP WITH MY BS for at least a couple more fics;  
> To GOT7, for being wonderful homo-ass cinnamon rolls and inspiring me to write this.
> 
> I’ll see you on the other side; till we meet again! (IF YOU KNOW WHERE THAT’S FROM I LEGIT WILL GIFT THE SEQUEL TO YOU I SWEAR)


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